WELL I SAW...THE LIGHT...IN YOUR THIIIIIIIGGGGHHHS*
I plan on wearing shorts today--adjust your schedules accordingly. You may want to bring sunglasses, just in case we happen to cross paths.
As the weather gets warmer and young men with mayonnaise-tinted complexions (like mine) begin to show a little leg, I would like all you sexxed-up women to keep something in mind:
Once you go pasty...you quit drinking real hasty.
Please control yourselves, ladies.
* In case it wasn't obvious, this is meant to be sung to the tune of Todd Rundgren's "I Saw the Light", a relatively UN-annoying soung that gets stuck in my head quite a bit.
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
BUSTED!
As I'm sure most of you know, terrorists tend to speak in code. I was recently reading an article about what a difficult time American cryptographers are having trying to decipher Al Qaeda's intricate communications. Well, when it comes to Homeland Security, no one is more vigilant than yours truly. And that's why I feel it's necessary for me to bring what I perceive to be suspicous activity to the attention of the vast Tower of Hubris readership.
Here's the deal: There is a Syrian gentleman named Ali who owns the Astoria Garden Deli & Grocery, a convenience store across the street from my apartment. Now, Ali seems like a pleasant enough fellow--he's quck with a friendly smile and always gives exact change. On the surface, Ali is a fine and upstanding American. The problem, however, is his habit of posting various handwritten signs around the store for everyone to see--I think he may be using them as a crude form of terrorist code. What makes me so sure? One very simple thing: Ali's completely arbitrary and unnecessary use of quotation marks. For instance, the following sign was taped to the register last week:
IF YOU DON'T HAVE ANY "I.D."
YOU CAN'T BUY ANY "BEER"
How would you explain that? Is he saying I don't actually need to have proper identification? Or perhaps what Ali's selling is not actually beer. Makes you think, doesn't it?
Well, I say better safe than sorry--I called the FBI. And lemme tell you, when they forcibly removed Ali from his home, his family was pitching an absolute fit! Gee, guilty much?
The important thing is I feel safer. Because that's what's at stake here, people--my own personal sense of safety. What can I say? I like to do my part.
As I'm sure most of you know, terrorists tend to speak in code. I was recently reading an article about what a difficult time American cryptographers are having trying to decipher Al Qaeda's intricate communications. Well, when it comes to Homeland Security, no one is more vigilant than yours truly. And that's why I feel it's necessary for me to bring what I perceive to be suspicous activity to the attention of the vast Tower of Hubris readership.
Here's the deal: There is a Syrian gentleman named Ali who owns the Astoria Garden Deli & Grocery, a convenience store across the street from my apartment. Now, Ali seems like a pleasant enough fellow--he's quck with a friendly smile and always gives exact change. On the surface, Ali is a fine and upstanding American. The problem, however, is his habit of posting various handwritten signs around the store for everyone to see--I think he may be using them as a crude form of terrorist code. What makes me so sure? One very simple thing: Ali's completely arbitrary and unnecessary use of quotation marks. For instance, the following sign was taped to the register last week:
IF YOU DON'T HAVE ANY "I.D."
YOU CAN'T BUY ANY "BEER"
How would you explain that? Is he saying I don't actually need to have proper identification? Or perhaps what Ali's selling is not actually beer. Makes you think, doesn't it?
Well, I say better safe than sorry--I called the FBI. And lemme tell you, when they forcibly removed Ali from his home, his family was pitching an absolute fit! Gee, guilty much?
The important thing is I feel safer. Because that's what's at stake here, people--my own personal sense of safety. What can I say? I like to do my part.
Monday, April 28, 2003
PLUGGITY PLUG PLUG
So it appears that I'll be hosting the genuinely fantastic "Eating It" show at Luna Lounge tonight. This is a comedy show that regularly plays host to bigwigs like Janeane Garafalo, Colin Quinn, Dave Chappelle, Sarah Silverman, lots of SNL cast members, blah blah blah. I have no idea who's on the bill tonight, but if you're in the city (that city being New York), you should come on down. It's down on the Lower East Side--don't worry, you'll be issued ironic t-shirts and soul patches at the door (for women, substitute "grandma glasses" for soul patches). Check the link for details, directions, etc.
Oh, and and my friend Todd directed me to this wonderful piece of art. It's never too early to start your holiday shopping, folks.
So it appears that I'll be hosting the genuinely fantastic "Eating It" show at Luna Lounge tonight. This is a comedy show that regularly plays host to bigwigs like Janeane Garafalo, Colin Quinn, Dave Chappelle, Sarah Silverman, lots of SNL cast members, blah blah blah. I have no idea who's on the bill tonight, but if you're in the city (that city being New York), you should come on down. It's down on the Lower East Side--don't worry, you'll be issued ironic t-shirts and soul patches at the door (for women, substitute "grandma glasses" for soul patches). Check the link for details, directions, etc.
Oh, and and my friend Todd directed me to this wonderful piece of art. It's never too early to start your holiday shopping, folks.
Sunday, April 27, 2003
Writing Friday's entry made me ponder...
THE WORLD'S MOST ANNOYING SONGS TO GET STUCK IN YOUR HEAD
"Shake You Down" by Gregory Abbott
"Incense and Peppermint" by The Strawberry Alarm Clock
"Karma Chameleon" by Culture Club
"Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" by Rupert Holmes
"Lights Out" by Peter Wolf
"With Arms Wide Open" by Creed
"Queen of Hearts" by Juice Newton
"Desert Rose" by Sting
"Do What You Do" by Jermaine Jackson
"Without Us" (Theme from Family Ties)
"This Is How We Do It" by Montell Jordan
"Cheeseburger in Paradise" by Jimmy Buffett
"I'd Do Anything For Love (But I won't Do That)" by Meatloaf
"What's Going On" by 4 Non Blondes
and, of course, "Feels So Good" by Chuck Mangione (Even if you don't think you know this song, trust me--you do.)
Friday, April 25, 2003
SUPERMAN'S LESSER KNOWN SUPER POWERS
* Can program TiVo with mind
* Armpits that emit the incapacitatingly soothing scent of fresh pancakes
* The superhuman ability to get wasted on three wine coolers
* Invisiballs
* Ultra Silent Treatment
* The ability to get Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good" stuck in the heads of arch-enemies
* Super rage-inducing "ironic" mullet
* Can untangle telephone cord by repeatedly flying around it at the speed of light
* Supersexy Brazillian bikini wax
* Can see through hype
* Heat Urine
* Can program TiVo with mind
* Armpits that emit the incapacitatingly soothing scent of fresh pancakes
* The superhuman ability to get wasted on three wine coolers
* Invisiballs
* Ultra Silent Treatment
* The ability to get Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good" stuck in the heads of arch-enemies
* Super rage-inducing "ironic" mullet
* Can untangle telephone cord by repeatedly flying around it at the speed of light
* Supersexy Brazillian bikini wax
* Can see through hype
* Heat Urine
Thursday, April 24, 2003
YEEESH!
I do lots of embarrassing stuff--trip over things, say dumb shit, etc. But I can take solace in that fact that I'll never do anything as embarrassing as Madonna's "rapping" in her new single, "American Life". In a few short musical measures, Madonna has set the White-People-Aren't-Dorks movement back fifteen years. It reminds me of someone's dad trying to act cool--especially in the video, where she falls back on a few Electric Boogaloo-era hand gestures.
Charlotte Church could have pulled that shit off more convincingly.
I do lots of embarrassing stuff--trip over things, say dumb shit, etc. But I can take solace in that fact that I'll never do anything as embarrassing as Madonna's "rapping" in her new single, "American Life". In a few short musical measures, Madonna has set the White-People-Aren't-Dorks movement back fifteen years. It reminds me of someone's dad trying to act cool--especially in the video, where she falls back on a few Electric Boogaloo-era hand gestures.
Charlotte Church could have pulled that shit off more convincingly.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Please excuse this test of the Tower of Hubris broadcast system. I've been having some bloggery problems and the only way to make all my fix-its take affect was to publish something. Unfortunately, I'm pooped. If I felt truly inspired, I might have written something about how I suspect that Lisa Marie Presley may in fact be a dude. But no, it's time for me to go beddie-bye. I have a commercial audition in the AM, where I play a guy who tries to "shrink" his phone bill by putting it into the clothes dryer. Hilarious! How do these genius ad writers come up with this stuff??! GET IT??! He puts it in the DRYER!!! Hoo-doggy!
Anyway, until I have time to write something worthwhile, I offer this small piece of advice: if there ever comes a time when marijuana is legalized, buy some stock in Cheetos. You'll clean up, yo.
P.S. ...in the DRYER, I tell you!!!
Please excuse this test of the Tower of Hubris broadcast system. I've been having some bloggery problems and the only way to make all my fix-its take affect was to publish something. Unfortunately, I'm pooped. If I felt truly inspired, I might have written something about how I suspect that Lisa Marie Presley may in fact be a dude. But no, it's time for me to go beddie-bye. I have a commercial audition in the AM, where I play a guy who tries to "shrink" his phone bill by putting it into the clothes dryer. Hilarious! How do these genius ad writers come up with this stuff??! GET IT??! He puts it in the DRYER!!! Hoo-doggy!
Anyway, until I have time to write something worthwhile, I offer this small piece of advice: if there ever comes a time when marijuana is legalized, buy some stock in Cheetos. You'll clean up, yo.
P.S. ...in the DRYER, I tell you!!!
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
PREAMBLE
As I mentioned a couple of days ago, I'm in the process of looking for a new roommate. I've moved around quite a bit since I moved to NYC, but this is the first time I've ever been in the position of having someone move into my apartment. Up until now, it's always been the other way around. I spent a long time this past week trying to narrow down what kind of person I'm looking for, and I came to a very simple conclusion: he/she must be a better person than me. That's it. That's my only requirement. Just be a better human being than I am, and you could be the new renter 1/2 of a very spacious apartment in Astoria, Queens.
Why such low standards? Maybe it's because I've lived with so many shitheads over the years. In the 13.5 years I've been living away from home (two years in high school*, four at NYU, seven and a half since), I've lived with 18 different people. As I begin anew with Roommate #19, I thought it might be interesting to look back at the various dummies, dweebs and drug addicts I've shared homes with over the years. With that in mind, I present:
THE COHABITATORS, Part I
CLARK DORMITORY (High School)*
BEN -- Ben was from upstate New York and something of a Rural-ist. Upon moving his stuff into our shared room, he immediately hung a huge American flag on the wall. He also enjoyed chewing tobacco, which I found positively delightful. Ben would deposit his brown saliva into a homemade spittoon fashioned out of a 2-liter soda bottle, which he emptied every other week or so. I went out with a few high school friends a couple of years ago, and Ben showed up unexpectedly. He now has three gold teeth. We all drove around in Ben's car all night, while he attempted to buy some Blow (for himself, not for me).
JUDSON RESIDENCE HALL (NYU)
JOSH -- Josh was your archetypal NYU film student. Any attempt at having a conversation with Josh eventually led to him telling you about his screenplay, and how it was going to change the way Americans thought about love, racism, social justice and, of course, robots.
HUNG HAW -- Yes, that was his name. Pronounced �hung how�. His full name: Hung Haw Long. No, I�m not kidding. Hung, as he liked to be called, shared the room with Josh and I. He was a very studious fellow. I can�t really say anything bad about him, except that he used to play Eric Clapton�s �You Look Wonderful Tonight� thrice daily. A horrid, horrid song.
7th STREET RESIDENCE HALL, NYU
DAN -- I will always be thankful to Dan for introducing me to the music of Tom Waits. The only weird thing I can remember about him is that he talked in his sleep, often about sausages. Insert Freud joke here.
ADAM -- Adam and Evan were Dan and my suitemates. Adam was a great guy. Unfortunately, he was also a hardcore environmentalist, which meant a) he smalled very bad, and b) he was constantly trying to enforce a �Yellow, Stay Mellow� rule, with regard to flushing the toilet.
EVAN -- What a dick. Evan was one of those I'm-desperately-afraid-of-social-rejection-so-I'll-just-sit-in-the-living-room-all-day-watching- TV-and-ridiculing-anyone-who-actually-has-a-life types; the kind of guy who could (and would) explain to you why each and every individual episode of "Who's the Boss" sucked. His nightly dinner, prepared between the hours of midnight and 2am, included an entire garlic clove and half an onion.
222 THOMPSON ST.
VERONICA -- My time living with Veronica was the first (and only) time I've ever tried romantic cohabitation. When I moved in January 1st, 1994, Veronica and I were as devoted to each other as any couple could possible be -- in fact, we came rather close to flying to Vegas and getting married one night. By April 15th, Veronica was boning some Wall Street jagoff and I was penning revenge poetry that would have made Morrissey roll his eyes.
TALISH & AMY -- Talish and Amy were the other couple sharing the tiny 2BR with Veronica and me. They were good friends of mine, but as Veronica and I had our falling out, they seemed increasingly annoyed by my habit of punching the wall while audibly sobbing. Elitists.
126 ST. MARK�S PLACE
MIKE -- Mike was a very pleasant guy who played in a really shitty rock band. I went to see three shitty gigs during the first month I lived in his apartment, and then spent the next 16 months making up excuses in order to never see them again. It was kind of awkward - like when you make out with a co-worker at a Christmas party and then never speak of it again.
WILLY -- Willy was one of the nicest people I've ever met and my very first "drinking buddy". We'd wander around the East Village from bar to bar, drinking shitty beer and playing pool. What I didn�t know was that Willy had just gotten out of rehab a few months earlier and I had unwittingly helped him fall off the wagon. He ended up hitting rock bottom, stealing money from me, and slinking back into rehab. Truly, a cautionary tale.
CHEYENNE � What a colossal mistake. Never, EVER choose a roommate based on hotness. Coming off the Willy debacle, Mike and I decided we wanted a female roommate and we just happened to settle on this bitchy dingbat who made her living by dancing on MTV�s �The Grind�. Cheyenne was, without a doubt, the dumbest person I have ever met, or will ever meet. I feel perfectly comfortable putting that in print, as I�m confident that she�s far too stupid to know how to Google herself. Here�s all you need to know about Cheyenne: When River Phoenix died, Cheyenne ordered a back issue of Spin with him on the cover, mounted it in a glass frame and placed it on the living room mantle. From then forward, whenever Cheyenne would enter or leave the apartment, she�d blow �The Riv� a kiss.
COMING TOMORROW: Carrie the coke addict and Charles, the 38 year old aspiring hip hop deejay!
* Yes, I went to a performing arts boarding school for two years. Go ahead an mock me!
As I mentioned a couple of days ago, I'm in the process of looking for a new roommate. I've moved around quite a bit since I moved to NYC, but this is the first time I've ever been in the position of having someone move into my apartment. Up until now, it's always been the other way around. I spent a long time this past week trying to narrow down what kind of person I'm looking for, and I came to a very simple conclusion: he/she must be a better person than me. That's it. That's my only requirement. Just be a better human being than I am, and you could be the new renter 1/2 of a very spacious apartment in Astoria, Queens.
Why such low standards? Maybe it's because I've lived with so many shitheads over the years. In the 13.5 years I've been living away from home (two years in high school*, four at NYU, seven and a half since), I've lived with 18 different people. As I begin anew with Roommate #19, I thought it might be interesting to look back at the various dummies, dweebs and drug addicts I've shared homes with over the years. With that in mind, I present:
THE COHABITATORS, Part I
CLARK DORMITORY (High School)*
BEN -- Ben was from upstate New York and something of a Rural-ist. Upon moving his stuff into our shared room, he immediately hung a huge American flag on the wall. He also enjoyed chewing tobacco, which I found positively delightful. Ben would deposit his brown saliva into a homemade spittoon fashioned out of a 2-liter soda bottle, which he emptied every other week or so. I went out with a few high school friends a couple of years ago, and Ben showed up unexpectedly. He now has three gold teeth. We all drove around in Ben's car all night, while he attempted to buy some Blow (for himself, not for me).
JUDSON RESIDENCE HALL (NYU)
JOSH -- Josh was your archetypal NYU film student. Any attempt at having a conversation with Josh eventually led to him telling you about his screenplay, and how it was going to change the way Americans thought about love, racism, social justice and, of course, robots.
HUNG HAW -- Yes, that was his name. Pronounced �hung how�. His full name: Hung Haw Long. No, I�m not kidding. Hung, as he liked to be called, shared the room with Josh and I. He was a very studious fellow. I can�t really say anything bad about him, except that he used to play Eric Clapton�s �You Look Wonderful Tonight� thrice daily. A horrid, horrid song.
7th STREET RESIDENCE HALL, NYU
DAN -- I will always be thankful to Dan for introducing me to the music of Tom Waits. The only weird thing I can remember about him is that he talked in his sleep, often about sausages. Insert Freud joke here.
ADAM -- Adam and Evan were Dan and my suitemates. Adam was a great guy. Unfortunately, he was also a hardcore environmentalist, which meant a) he smalled very bad, and b) he was constantly trying to enforce a �Yellow, Stay Mellow� rule, with regard to flushing the toilet.
EVAN -- What a dick. Evan was one of those I'm-desperately-afraid-of-social-rejection-so-I'll-just-sit-in-the-living-room-all-day-watching- TV-and-ridiculing-anyone-who-actually-has-a-life types; the kind of guy who could (and would) explain to you why each and every individual episode of "Who's the Boss" sucked. His nightly dinner, prepared between the hours of midnight and 2am, included an entire garlic clove and half an onion.
222 THOMPSON ST.
VERONICA -- My time living with Veronica was the first (and only) time I've ever tried romantic cohabitation. When I moved in January 1st, 1994, Veronica and I were as devoted to each other as any couple could possible be -- in fact, we came rather close to flying to Vegas and getting married one night. By April 15th, Veronica was boning some Wall Street jagoff and I was penning revenge poetry that would have made Morrissey roll his eyes.
TALISH & AMY -- Talish and Amy were the other couple sharing the tiny 2BR with Veronica and me. They were good friends of mine, but as Veronica and I had our falling out, they seemed increasingly annoyed by my habit of punching the wall while audibly sobbing. Elitists.
126 ST. MARK�S PLACE
MIKE -- Mike was a very pleasant guy who played in a really shitty rock band. I went to see three shitty gigs during the first month I lived in his apartment, and then spent the next 16 months making up excuses in order to never see them again. It was kind of awkward - like when you make out with a co-worker at a Christmas party and then never speak of it again.
WILLY -- Willy was one of the nicest people I've ever met and my very first "drinking buddy". We'd wander around the East Village from bar to bar, drinking shitty beer and playing pool. What I didn�t know was that Willy had just gotten out of rehab a few months earlier and I had unwittingly helped him fall off the wagon. He ended up hitting rock bottom, stealing money from me, and slinking back into rehab. Truly, a cautionary tale.
CHEYENNE � What a colossal mistake. Never, EVER choose a roommate based on hotness. Coming off the Willy debacle, Mike and I decided we wanted a female roommate and we just happened to settle on this bitchy dingbat who made her living by dancing on MTV�s �The Grind�. Cheyenne was, without a doubt, the dumbest person I have ever met, or will ever meet. I feel perfectly comfortable putting that in print, as I�m confident that she�s far too stupid to know how to Google herself. Here�s all you need to know about Cheyenne: When River Phoenix died, Cheyenne ordered a back issue of Spin with him on the cover, mounted it in a glass frame and placed it on the living room mantle. From then forward, whenever Cheyenne would enter or leave the apartment, she�d blow �The Riv� a kiss.
COMING TOMORROW: Carrie the coke addict and Charles, the 38 year old aspiring hip hop deejay!
* Yes, I went to a performing arts boarding school for two years. Go ahead an mock me!
GRRRRRRRRRRR...
I just finished writing a ridiculously long blog entry, a comprehensive overview of every weirdo I've ever shared an apartment with since moving to NYC. Unfortunately, when I cut and pasted it from Word, it developed all of these formatting problems. I'm so frustrated right now, I could punch Nelson Mandela in the dick. Must not kill. Must. Not. Kill.
I'm going to go to bed before my head explodes.
I just finished writing a ridiculously long blog entry, a comprehensive overview of every weirdo I've ever shared an apartment with since moving to NYC. Unfortunately, when I cut and pasted it from Word, it developed all of these formatting problems. I'm so frustrated right now, I could punch Nelson Mandela in the dick. Must not kill. Must. Not. Kill.
I'm going to go to bed before my head explodes.
Monday, April 21, 2003
OPINION POLL
Question: Has Tower of Hubris jumped the shark?
a) Yes. What was once a fresh comedic perspective on sexual mores and popular culture has devolved into a profanity-laden whinefest. Get your shit together, fuckbag. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go insert a cucumber into my anus.
b) No. I'm relatively new to this site and hate it when people start in with that "Oh, this used to be cool" crap. Besides, I happen to be a fan of both profanity and whining. Whatever you do, don't go back to doing those music lists you've already beaten into the ground.
c) Hard to say. I'm only here because I did a Google search for "Jennifer+Capriati+fingerbang+photos".
d) Um, did you just use the term "jump the shark"? What is this, 1998? You fucking fossil.
e) Never mind your stupid blog--I'm bleeding over here! Someone get a doctor, goddamn it! Oh god, there's so much blood...It's getting...dark... So...dark...
f) Who farted?
Your participation is appreciated.
Question:
a) Yes. What was once a fresh comedic perspective on sexual mores and popular culture has devolved into a profanity-laden whinefest. Get your shit together, fuckbag. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go insert a cucumber into my anus.
b) No. I'm relatively new to this site and hate it when people start in with that "Oh, this used to be cool" crap. Besides, I happen to be a fan of both profanity and whining. Whatever you do, don't go back to doing those music lists you've already beaten into the ground.
c) Hard to say. I'm only here because I did a Google search for "Jennifer+Capriati+fingerbang+photos".
d) Um, did you just use the term "jump the shark"? What is this, 1998? You fucking fossil.
e) Never mind your stupid blog--I'm bleeding over here! Someone get a doctor, goddamn it! Oh god, there's so much blood...
f) Who farted?
Your participation is appreciated.
Sunday, April 20, 2003
RANDOM THOUGHTS ON A PLEASANT AFTERNOON
* Ah, NBA Playoff time. There's nothing better than sitting around your apartment on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, watching other people exercise. I think I'll order a pizza.
* I'm on Day 4 of a month-long boner, culminating in the release of The Matrix Reloaded on May 15th. It's really not healthy to look forward to a movie this much.
* I've been dating someone for almost three months now. Yes, it's true. Problem is, she's always saying all this fucked up shit, like "Christian, I find you vaguely physically attractive," and "Christian, you're not a complete asshole". Yeah, I know--it's like, helll-oooooo! I'm not going to listen to that kind of crazy talk. I refuse to let one woman's opinion affect the way I feel about myself.
* I'm going to start using the word "boyfriend" in conversation with my guy friends. For example, if someone asks me, "Hey, you going to the Yankees game today?", I'll respond with "You know it, boyfriend!"
* My roommate is moving in with her boyfriend on June 1, so I'm in the process of looking for someone to move in. I have no steadfast ideas about what kind of person I'm looking for, but I'm leaning towards picking a woman. Why, you ask? Because I've found that living with a woman makes me a much better man. Because no reasonable guy wants a woman, even a platonic friend or roommate, to discover just what a disgusting pig he is. And trust me, he is. Therefore, if I have a female roommate, I'll be aware of things I might otherwise ignore. I won't leave half-eaten food lying around the kitchen. I'll wash a dish now and then. And if I just happen to stumble home drunk one night and find myself missing the toilet completely and peeing on the floor, chances are I'll wipe it up. But with a guy roommate? Ha! All bets are off, especally when it comes to toilet-area upkeep. Hell, you could knit a sweater with all that errant pubic hair. This is why I prefer female roommates.
* Psychedelic Furs' "The Ghost in You" may be the most perfect pop song ever written. This is not a joke. There's not one note out of place. Nearly impeccable.
* If you don't already hate Bill O'Reilly, read the transcript of this interview. It's breathtaking in it's douchebaggery.
* How long do you think human beings were having sex before the first blow job was performed? I'm going to guess 42 minutes and that "Ooga" was one popular cavewoman.
* Ah, NBA Playoff time. There's nothing better than sitting around your apartment on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, watching other people exercise. I think I'll order a pizza.
* I'm on Day 4 of a month-long boner, culminating in the release of The Matrix Reloaded on May 15th. It's really not healthy to look forward to a movie this much.
* I've been dating someone for almost three months now. Yes, it's true. Problem is, she's always saying all this fucked up shit, like "Christian, I find you vaguely physically attractive," and "Christian, you're not a complete asshole". Yeah, I know--it's like, helll-oooooo! I'm not going to listen to that kind of crazy talk. I refuse to let one woman's opinion affect the way I feel about myself.
* I'm going to start using the word "boyfriend" in conversation with my guy friends. For example, if someone asks me, "Hey, you going to the Yankees game today?", I'll respond with "You know it, boyfriend!"
* My roommate is moving in with her boyfriend on June 1, so I'm in the process of looking for someone to move in. I have no steadfast ideas about what kind of person I'm looking for, but I'm leaning towards picking a woman. Why, you ask? Because I've found that living with a woman makes me a much better man. Because no reasonable guy wants a woman, even a platonic friend or roommate, to discover just what a disgusting pig he is. And trust me, he is. Therefore, if I have a female roommate, I'll be aware of things I might otherwise ignore. I won't leave half-eaten food lying around the kitchen. I'll wash a dish now and then. And if I just happen to stumble home drunk one night and find myself missing the toilet completely and peeing on the floor, chances are I'll wipe it up. But with a guy roommate? Ha! All bets are off, especally when it comes to toilet-area upkeep. Hell, you could knit a sweater with all that errant pubic hair. This is why I prefer female roommates.
* Psychedelic Furs' "The Ghost in You" may be the most perfect pop song ever written. This is not a joke. There's not one note out of place. Nearly impeccable.
* If you don't already hate Bill O'Reilly, read the transcript of this interview. It's breathtaking in it's douchebaggery.
* How long do you think human beings were having sex before the first blow job was performed? I'm going to guess 42 minutes and that "Ooga" was one popular cavewoman.
Friday, April 18, 2003
GET THE PIETY STARTED
The following is another hilarity-packed plug for Portable Comedy, the show I host every Friday night at The Gershwin Hotel. If you're in town, come on down--it's going to be a great one tonight.
Between Passover and Easter, there can be no doubt that this is the most important weekend on the Judeo-Christian calendar. As host of Portable Comedy at The Gershwin Hotel, I'm sensitive to this sort of thing, so you can count on me not to exploit your sacred beliefs in order to promote a mere comedy show. That would be just plain wrong. Someone less ethical might try to appeal to Jewish comedy fans by saying something like:
"Portable Comedy--don't pass over it!"
Or, "Why is this comedy show like no other comedy show?"
Or even, "Come on down and find the Laffikomen!"
Pitiful, is it not? Thankfully, we here at Portable Comedy are above that sort of thing. You Christians can also count on me not milking Easter Weekend, along the lines of:
"Why settle for a Good Friday when you can have a GREAT Friday?"
Or, "Resurrect your funny bone and come on down!"
Or, "You'll consider yourself a disciple...of comedy!"
Nor will I use biblical quotations as a springboard for cheap laughs, a la:
"Jeff Foxworthy...why have you forsaken me?"
And, "Into thy hands, I commend my Vin Deisel impression"
Nope, nothing like that. What you WILL see at Portable Comedy tonight are some of NYC's best comedians at a price so low, you'll shout "Hallelujah!" Joining me will be:
JULIUS SHARPE (Writer for "The Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn" and former host of Portable Comedy! By the way, I realize I said he was on the show last week, but I was temporarily confused--never mix Tequiza and Klonopin, kids!)
ROB PARAVONIAN (He's appeared on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend" and "Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn". Check him out at www.paravonian.com!)
RENA ZAGER (She's appeared on NBC's "Late Friday" and is a contributing writer for www.girlcomic.net!)
JONNY FIDO (His movie and television appearances are too numerous to mention, as you can see at www.jonnyfido.com. He appeared most recently on Comedy Central's "Chappelle's Show"!)
DANIEL NEWBOWER (This guy represented the entire city of Boston a couple of years back in the Comedy Central Laugh Riots Contest finals. Plus, he went to my Junior High and performed in the same incredibly lame sketch Comedy and musical theatre troupe! The Mad Hatters? Heard of 'em? They were a seminal influence in the world-renowned Acton, Massachusetts sketch comedy and musical theatre scene.)
PLUS, A SPECIAL GUEST!
Here's the skinny:
PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, APRIL 18th
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
$7.00
So quit dipping yer eggs and come on down! We'll be saving a seat for YOU, Elijah!
The following is another hilarity-packed plug for Portable Comedy, the show I host every Friday night at The Gershwin Hotel. If you're in town, come on down--it's going to be a great one tonight.
Between Passover and Easter, there can be no doubt that this is the most important weekend on the Judeo-Christian calendar. As host of Portable Comedy at The Gershwin Hotel, I'm sensitive to this sort of thing, so you can count on me not to exploit your sacred beliefs in order to promote a mere comedy show. That would be just plain wrong. Someone less ethical might try to appeal to Jewish comedy fans by saying something like:
"Portable Comedy--don't pass over it!"
Or, "Why is this comedy show like no other comedy show?"
Or even, "Come on down and find the Laffikomen!"
Pitiful, is it not? Thankfully, we here at Portable Comedy are above that sort of thing. You Christians can also count on me not milking Easter Weekend, along the lines of:
"Why settle for a Good Friday when you can have a GREAT Friday?"
Or, "Resurrect your funny bone and come on down!"
Or, "You'll consider yourself a disciple...of comedy!"
Nor will I use biblical quotations as a springboard for cheap laughs, a la:
"Jeff Foxworthy...why have you forsaken me?"
And, "Into thy hands, I commend my Vin Deisel impression"
Nope, nothing like that. What you WILL see at Portable Comedy tonight are some of NYC's best comedians at a price so low, you'll shout "Hallelujah!" Joining me will be:
JULIUS SHARPE (Writer for "The Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn" and former host of Portable Comedy! By the way, I realize I said he was on the show last week, but I was temporarily confused--never mix Tequiza and Klonopin, kids!)
ROB PARAVONIAN (He's appeared on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend" and "Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn". Check him out at www.paravonian.com!)
RENA ZAGER (She's appeared on NBC's "Late Friday" and is a contributing writer for www.girlcomic.net!)
JONNY FIDO (His movie and television appearances are too numerous to mention, as you can see at www.jonnyfido.com. He appeared most recently on Comedy Central's "Chappelle's Show"!)
DANIEL NEWBOWER (This guy represented the entire city of Boston a couple of years back in the Comedy Central Laugh Riots Contest finals. Plus, he went to my Junior High and performed in the same incredibly lame sketch Comedy and musical theatre troupe! The Mad Hatters? Heard of 'em? They were a seminal influence in the world-renowned Acton, Massachusetts sketch comedy and musical theatre scene.)
PLUS, A SPECIAL GUEST!
Here's the skinny:
PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, APRIL 18th
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
$7.00
So quit dipping yer eggs and come on down! We'll be saving a seat for YOU, Elijah!
Thursday, April 17, 2003
GO TO SLEEP, FINNEGAN
5am. Nothing to say. Blank slate, dudes. Will try and write something this afternoon.
In the meantime, waste some time here.
5am. Nothing to say. Blank slate, dudes. Will try and write something this afternoon.
In the meantime, waste some time here.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLD: JOIN HANDS! START A LOVE TRAIN!
Just how beautiful was it outside yesterday? So beautiful that, for once, I don't have a bad thing to say about anything or anybody. It was that nice! And today is supposed to be even nicer! Nothing can ruin the wonderful day that is sure to follow. Honking taxi cabs? Music to my ears! Sidewalks crowded with tourists? No problem--welcome to The Big Apple, my foreign friends! Lots of sweaty fat dudes wearing tank tops? You go, boyfriend! That's right--I'm all sunshine and dasies! Life is bliss!
However, I just checked the five day forecast and it's supposed to rain Thursday and Friday. Therefore, it's entirely possible that I may have some rather bitchy things to say later in the week. Here are a few possible topics:
* Bill O'Reilly (again)
* KFC
* Having rommates in NYC
* Cokeheads
* The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
* Taxes
* The Chinese Zodiac
* Sports "cartoonist" Bill Gallo
* tATu
* Bill O'Reilly (even more)
* The New England Roleplaying Society
* Lambada and other lost dance "crazes"
* Rampant high-fiving
* That whole "war" thing people have been talking about
* Mrs. Motherfucking Garrett
But for now, I'm all about the love, baby! Now get out there and hug someone uninvitedly!
Just how beautiful was it outside yesterday? So beautiful that, for once, I don't have a bad thing to say about anything or anybody. It was that nice! And today is supposed to be even nicer! Nothing can ruin the wonderful day that is sure to follow. Honking taxi cabs? Music to my ears! Sidewalks crowded with tourists? No problem--welcome to The Big Apple, my foreign friends! Lots of sweaty fat dudes wearing tank tops? You go, boyfriend! That's right--I'm all sunshine and dasies! Life is bliss!
However, I just checked the five day forecast and it's supposed to rain Thursday and Friday. Therefore, it's entirely possible that I may have some rather bitchy things to say later in the week. Here are a few possible topics:
* Bill O'Reilly (again)
* KFC
* Having rommates in NYC
* Cokeheads
* The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
* Taxes
* The Chinese Zodiac
* Sports "cartoonist" Bill Gallo
* tATu
* Bill O'Reilly (even more)
* The New England Roleplaying Society
* Lambada and other lost dance "crazes"
* Rampant high-fiving
* That whole "war" thing people have been talking about
* Mrs. Motherfucking Garrett
But for now, I'm all about the love, baby! Now get out there and hug someone uninvitedly!
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
JOEL SHITMAKER PRESENTS...
I wonder if the makers of Phone Booth, directed by Hollywood schlockmeister Joel Schumacher, ever considered this one indisputable fact: phone booths haven't existed in NYC for upwards of fifteen years.
No, not even one. You might as well write a thriller centered around a mimeograph machine. Or a dot matrix printer. Or hell, a goddamn lute!
Phone Booth is what douchebag Hollywood executives like to refer to as your classic "High Concept" film. After much consderation, I've decided that this means it's the kind of movie where the concept only seems plausible if you're high. "Wait wait wait...check it out, dude...(inhale) ...What if you did a movie...about a guy...who answered a phone...(smaller inhale) ...and the guy who was on the other end...was totally gonna, like...kill him... (big exhale) ...That would fucking rule."
That's all I have to say about Phone Booth, but I will offer this one last mathmatical trueism:
Alfred Hitchcock movies = Good
Movies that present themselves as being "Hitchcockian" = Very, very bad
I wonder if the makers of Phone Booth, directed by Hollywood schlockmeister Joel Schumacher, ever considered this one indisputable fact: phone booths haven't existed in NYC for upwards of fifteen years.
No, not even one. You might as well write a thriller centered around a mimeograph machine. Or a dot matrix printer. Or hell, a goddamn lute!
Phone Booth is what douchebag Hollywood executives like to refer to as your classic "High Concept" film. After much consderation, I've decided that this means it's the kind of movie where the concept only seems plausible if you're high. "Wait wait wait...check it out, dude...(inhale) ...What if you did a movie...about a guy...who answered a phone...(smaller inhale) ...and the guy who was on the other end...was totally gonna, like...kill him... (big exhale) ...That would fucking rule."
That's all I have to say about Phone Booth, but I will offer this one last mathmatical trueism:
Alfred Hitchcock movies = Good
Movies that present themselves as being "Hitchcockian" = Very, very bad
Monday, April 14, 2003
UM...MAY I SPEAK TO....CHRISTINE FLANNERGAN?
It must be tough being a telemarketer. Black or white, male or female, Democrat or Republican----hatred of telemarketes is one thing every American can agree on. Christ, even racists (the KKK) and pedophiles (NAMBLA) find comraderie somewhere. But who the hell is going to stand up for telemarketers?
Me, that's who.
I don't think people realize what a vital role telemarketers play in our society. Just think about how many times each and every day you want to treat someone like crap, but can't. Frustrating, is it not? After all, people are constantly "getting up in your grill"--your boss is yells at you because the supply closet is out of Post-It notes, your parents keep trying to talk to you about your "problem" with "alcohol", and your girlfriend? She's just busting your balls for the sheer fuck of it. You want to scream in their faces, right? But you don't. Sure, there might be a fleeting moment of pleasure in losing your shit on someone, but it's not like you can afford to get fired / disinherited / dumped. So, time after time, you swallow your pride and say things like, "Yes, sir! I'll get right on that, sir!" and "Gee, Dad, thanks so much for sending me that 12 Step pamphlet in the mail!" and "I'm sorry, sweetheart--I don't know what I was thinking. I'm a terrible, terrible boyfriend. As usual, you're right, I'm wrong!" You play the good little soldier. But anger doesn't disappear just because you choose not to express it. No sirree Bob, it takes up residence in the pit of your stomach, just waiting for a viable and consequence-free target to come along. Enter the telemarketer.
Seriously, why else should we find them so utterly blight-worthy? No matter how righteously indignant you might claim to feel about this seemingly criminal "invasion of privacy", the simple truth is that a telemarketer robs you of absolutely nothing, save ten meager seconds of your life (ten seconds you'd have otherwise spent eating Cheetos and watching "Trading Spaces"). So why do we treat telemarketers like they just kicked Ghandi in the balls? Because it feels fucking great, that's why! Even the simple act of hanging up on someone while he's in the middle of a sentence--it's invigorating! In your face, asshole! I will not go quietly into that dark night! I've been shit on by Humanity and now you're going to pay for it, Mr. MCI Friends-and-Family!
Simply put, telemarketers are the obnoxious clowns in the dunking booth of Life.
It's gotten to the point where I'll yell at telemarketers for shit they have no control over. "No, I'm not interested in hearing about Capital One's new 'No Hassle' credit card, jack-off! Which reminds me, I'm not responsible for buying fucking office supplies, so tell my boss to get off my case! And since we're on the subject, maybe I wouldn't drink so much if my father had showed me some paternal affection when I was a child! Did he ever think of that Did he? DID HE?! Oh, and one more thing: the condom just broke, okay? BROKE!!! It's not like I was trying to get her pregnant, motherfucker!!!" I have to say, it makes me feel a lot better.
So the next time a telemarketer interrupts your day to try and sell you magazines, upgrade your long distance plan, or ask your opinions regarding the upcoming state comptroller race, thank him.*
* And then immediately yell "FUCK OFF" and hang up.
It must be tough being a telemarketer. Black or white, male or female, Democrat or Republican----hatred of telemarketes is one thing every American can agree on. Christ, even racists (the KKK) and pedophiles (NAMBLA) find comraderie somewhere. But who the hell is going to stand up for telemarketers?
Me, that's who.
I don't think people realize what a vital role telemarketers play in our society. Just think about how many times each and every day you want to treat someone like crap, but can't. Frustrating, is it not? After all, people are constantly "getting up in your grill"--your boss is yells at you because the supply closet is out of Post-It notes, your parents keep trying to talk to you about your "problem" with "alcohol", and your girlfriend? She's just busting your balls for the sheer fuck of it. You want to scream in their faces, right? But you don't. Sure, there might be a fleeting moment of pleasure in losing your shit on someone, but it's not like you can afford to get fired / disinherited / dumped. So, time after time, you swallow your pride and say things like, "Yes, sir! I'll get right on that, sir!" and "Gee, Dad, thanks so much for sending me that 12 Step pamphlet in the mail!" and "I'm sorry, sweetheart--I don't know what I was thinking. I'm a terrible, terrible boyfriend. As usual, you're right, I'm wrong!" You play the good little soldier. But anger doesn't disappear just because you choose not to express it. No sirree Bob, it takes up residence in the pit of your stomach, just waiting for a viable and consequence-free target to come along. Enter the telemarketer.
Seriously, why else should we find them so utterly blight-worthy? No matter how righteously indignant you might claim to feel about this seemingly criminal "invasion of privacy", the simple truth is that a telemarketer robs you of absolutely nothing, save ten meager seconds of your life (ten seconds you'd have otherwise spent eating Cheetos and watching "Trading Spaces"). So why do we treat telemarketers like they just kicked Ghandi in the balls? Because it feels fucking great, that's why! Even the simple act of hanging up on someone while he's in the middle of a sentence--it's invigorating! In your face, asshole! I will not go quietly into that dark night! I've been shit on by Humanity and now you're going to pay for it, Mr. MCI Friends-and-Family!
Simply put, telemarketers are the obnoxious clowns in the dunking booth of Life.
It's gotten to the point where I'll yell at telemarketers for shit they have no control over. "No, I'm not interested in hearing about Capital One's new 'No Hassle' credit card, jack-off! Which reminds me, I'm not responsible for buying fucking office supplies, so tell my boss to get off my case! And since we're on the subject, maybe I wouldn't drink so much if my father had showed me some paternal affection when I was a child! Did he ever think of that Did he? DID HE?! Oh, and one more thing: the condom just broke, okay? BROKE!!! It's not like I was trying to get her pregnant, motherfucker!!!" I have to say, it makes me feel a lot better.
So the next time a telemarketer interrupts your day to try and sell you magazines, upgrade your long distance plan, or ask your opinions regarding the upcoming state comptroller race, thank him.*
* And then immediately yell "FUCK OFF" and hang up.
Saturday, April 12, 2003
QUE?
Would someone tell why I'm supposed to give two jolly shits about Nicky and Paris Hilton? How the fuck are they considered celebrities? Downtown Julie Brown laughs at these non-entities! Christ, someone please send these twits to the Baghdad front line.
That is all. You may now return to your lives.
Friday, April 11, 2003
Thursday, April 10, 2003
WE ARE ALL MADE OF SARS
You know, the more I read about all this new disease hubbub, the more I come to the conclusion that SARS is a punishment from God. That's right, SARS sufferers: God is punishing you for your wayward lifestyle choices. You people, with your wanton...breathing. Look, I'm not faulting you for wanting to breathe--hell, there were a couple of times when I was a young man, hanging around with my pals, and...well, let's just say I was waiting to exhale (what can I say? We were young, we were drunk). The important thing is, I denied my unholy urges and as a result, I remain SARS-free to this day. If anyone out there would like to renounce their heathen breathing ways and return to the Lord, I can put you in touch with some wonderful counsellors at Project Ventilate.
I just want to let you know that I'm here for you--remember my slogan: love the sinner, hate the sin! But make no mistake, kids: no matter what the liberal media tries to tell you, God hates breathers and SARS is His way of telling you so.
You know, the more I read about all this new disease hubbub, the more I come to the conclusion that SARS is a punishment from God. That's right, SARS sufferers: God is punishing you for your wayward lifestyle choices. You people, with your wanton...breathing. Look, I'm not faulting you for wanting to breathe--hell, there were a couple of times when I was a young man, hanging around with my pals, and...well, let's just say I was waiting to exhale (what can I say? We were young, we were drunk). The important thing is, I denied my unholy urges and as a result, I remain SARS-free to this day. If anyone out there would like to renounce their heathen breathing ways and return to the Lord, I can put you in touch with some wonderful counsellors at Project Ventilate.
I just want to let you know that I'm here for you--remember my slogan: love the sinner, hate the sin! But make no mistake, kids: no matter what the liberal media tries to tell you, God hates breathers and SARS is His way of telling you so.
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
YOU WIN THIS ROUND, GENERAL TSO!
When I first moved to Astoria, I noticed that there was a Chinese take-out place called "Golden Dragon" loacated about fifty yards down the road. Now I love me some crappy Chinese takeout so, a few days after getting settled, I walk over to enjoy the first of what I expect to be many delicious Golden Dragon meals. This is my story.
Golden Dragon is your typical takeout place. Long counter, pictures of the various dishes up above, a few formica tables scattered around the 'dining area'. An 84lb elderly Chinese woman is standing behind the counter, smiling pleasantly at me. Behind her, a chubby dude with a wispy twelve-hair moustache is concocting something in a wok. Like I said: your typical Chinese takeout place, which suits me just fine. As I'm surveying the expansive Golden Dragon menu (Hmmm, sesame chicken or shrimp lo-mein? Should I go for won ton soup, or stick with the free soda? Decisions, decisions, decisions...), the elderly Chinese woman begins stomping furiously at something behind the counter, by her feet. A moment or two later, a mangy stray kitten (Astoria is full of them) ambles out, climbs onto a bag or duk sauce packets and relaxes. Long after the car has dragged itself out from underneath the counter, the woman is still kicking at something. You know, like a cockroach. Or a mouse. Or a rat. Or a cockroach on the back of a mouse who was being pulled on rollerskates by a rat. Something not nice.
Eventually, the elderly Chinese woman ceases her stomping and realizes that I'm standing there. Acknowledging the look of obvious horror on my face, she immediately starts shouting an explanation. "NO NO NO!" she bellows, "CAT! IT WAS CAT ONLY!!!"
Three responses immediately came to mind:
1) "No. Not 'cat only'. How do I know this? Because a full ten seconds after kitty made himself scarce, you were still stomping on...something."
2) "Okay, let's pretend it was 'cat only'. Why the holy fuck do you have a stray kitten wandering around the food prep area of a restaurant?! That's supposed to make me feel at ease? That cat looks like something that was pulled out of Priunce William Sound after the Exxon Valdez oil spill. And it's lying down on a bag of condiments--condiments that are meant for people to eat! At least put a flea collar on that motherfucker!"
3) "Okay, let's pretend it was 'cat only' and that it's perfectly natural and sanitary to have a stray kitten hanging out in a restaurant kitchen. That still doesn't answer one question: why the hell were you trying to stomp on it?!!"
I thought about trying to explain this to the elderly Chinese woman, but she just kept shouting at me. "CAT ONLY! CAT ONLY!! YOU ORDER NOW!". I turned and walked out, quite sure I'd never never enter Golden Dragon again.
Why do I bring this up? Because today, after 22 months of faithful avoidance, I ate lunch at Golden Dragon. I am so ashamed. Why would I do something this stupid, you ask? I really have no idea. Perhaps it was the rain that made me not want to walk the extra five blocks to King Garden. But, on some level, I think it had something to do with culinary daredevilism. Just try and make me deathly ill, Godlen Dragon! I am impervious to your flagrant health code violations!
Or maybe I just hate myself. I think I'm going to go make myself throw up.
When I first moved to Astoria, I noticed that there was a Chinese take-out place called "Golden Dragon" loacated about fifty yards down the road. Now I love me some crappy Chinese takeout so, a few days after getting settled, I walk over to enjoy the first of what I expect to be many delicious Golden Dragon meals. This is my story.
Golden Dragon is your typical takeout place. Long counter, pictures of the various dishes up above, a few formica tables scattered around the 'dining area'. An 84lb elderly Chinese woman is standing behind the counter, smiling pleasantly at me. Behind her, a chubby dude with a wispy twelve-hair moustache is concocting something in a wok. Like I said: your typical Chinese takeout place, which suits me just fine. As I'm surveying the expansive Golden Dragon menu (Hmmm, sesame chicken or shrimp lo-mein? Should I go for won ton soup, or stick with the free soda? Decisions, decisions, decisions...), the elderly Chinese woman begins stomping furiously at something behind the counter, by her feet. A moment or two later, a mangy stray kitten (Astoria is full of them) ambles out, climbs onto a bag or duk sauce packets and relaxes. Long after the car has dragged itself out from underneath the counter, the woman is still kicking at something. You know, like a cockroach. Or a mouse. Or a rat. Or a cockroach on the back of a mouse who was being pulled on rollerskates by a rat. Something not nice.
Eventually, the elderly Chinese woman ceases her stomping and realizes that I'm standing there. Acknowledging the look of obvious horror on my face, she immediately starts shouting an explanation. "NO NO NO!" she bellows, "CAT! IT WAS CAT ONLY!!!"
Three responses immediately came to mind:
1) "No. Not 'cat only'. How do I know this? Because a full ten seconds after kitty made himself scarce, you were still stomping on...something."
2) "Okay, let's pretend it was 'cat only'. Why the holy fuck do you have a stray kitten wandering around the food prep area of a restaurant?! That's supposed to make me feel at ease? That cat looks like something that was pulled out of Priunce William Sound after the Exxon Valdez oil spill. And it's lying down on a bag of condiments--condiments that are meant for people to eat! At least put a flea collar on that motherfucker!"
3) "Okay, let's pretend it was 'cat only' and that it's perfectly natural and sanitary to have a stray kitten hanging out in a restaurant kitchen. That still doesn't answer one question: why the hell were you trying to stomp on it?!!"
I thought about trying to explain this to the elderly Chinese woman, but she just kept shouting at me. "CAT ONLY! CAT ONLY!! YOU ORDER NOW!". I turned and walked out, quite sure I'd never never enter Golden Dragon again.
Why do I bring this up? Because today, after 22 months of faithful avoidance, I ate lunch at Golden Dragon. I am so ashamed. Why would I do something this stupid, you ask? I really have no idea. Perhaps it was the rain that made me not want to walk the extra five blocks to King Garden. But, on some level, I think it had something to do with culinary daredevilism. Just try and make me deathly ill, Godlen Dragon! I am impervious to your flagrant health code violations!
Or maybe I just hate myself. I think I'm going to go make myself throw up.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
E-NNOYING
Why do people get so pissy if you don't immediately thank them for their birthday "E-cards"? I mean, it takes longer to thank someone for an E-card than it does to send one. As far as gifts go, those things barely count. An E-card is your way of saying "Not only am I not bothering to send you an actual card, I don't find you interesting enough to have a telephone conversation with--happy birthday!"
I mean, thanks and all. But lay off the guilt trips, okay?
In other news, I have nothing interesting to say today. Until I do, take a look around here.
Why do people get so pissy if you don't immediately thank them for their birthday "E-cards"? I mean, it takes longer to thank someone for an E-card than it does to send one. As far as gifts go, those things barely count. An E-card is your way of saying "Not only am I not bothering to send you an actual card, I don't find you interesting enough to have a telephone conversation with--happy birthday!"
I mean, thanks and all. But lay off the guilt trips, okay?
In other news, I have nothing interesting to say today. Until I do, take a look around here.
Monday, April 07, 2003
WHERE THE FUCK IS THE HEATMISER WHEN YOU NEED HIM?
In a memorandum dated March 31, 2003 and posted on this site, regarding the unexpected snowfall we "enjoyed" in NYC last week, I told God to go fuck himself. Well, judging by the predictions of up to 8" of fresh snow by day's end today, it seems that God either never received my memo, or that he did receive it and is simply a dick of unimaginable magnitude.
Seriously, God--would you mind getting up off our collective face? Because I can't apeak for everyone, but I know I'm starting to get a little pissed. You want a piece of this, almighty being? Bring it, bitch!
One of my favorite Prince songs (I'm a pretty huge Prince fan, in case I've never mentioned it) is "Sometimes it Snows in April" from the album, Parade. Despite it's laughably "dramatic" placement in the blissfully unwatchable Under the Cherry Moon, it's a fantastic song. If you've heard it before, you know it's quite subtle, performed with a palpable sense of melancholy. But tonight, faced with the prospect of actual snow in April, I have to take issue with The Artsit Formerly Known as The Artist. You see, I spoke to quite a few people last night about the upcoming storm, and I wouldn't describe anyone's feelings on the subject as "melancholy". More like, "What? Snow? Tomorrow?!! Are you fucking...are you fucking kidding me?!!! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??!!! IT'S MOTHERFUCKING APRIL!!! GOD DAMN IT!!!!" Therefore, a song enitled "Sometimes it Snows in April" shouldn't be a delicate song of quiet resignation--it should be a balls-out death metal onslaught.
I'm watching the Weather Channel right now. Christ, does this meteorologist dude have a boner for snow. He keeps saying shit like "If you're in the New York City area, the next 18 hours or so should be pretty exciting!" Exciting? EXCITING?
(Find your happy place, Finnegan...don't kill...don't kill...don't kill...)
Anyway, on a more positive note...SARS!
In a memorandum dated March 31, 2003 and posted on this site, regarding the unexpected snowfall we "enjoyed" in NYC last week, I told God to go fuck himself. Well, judging by the predictions of up to 8" of fresh snow by day's end today, it seems that God either never received my memo, or that he did receive it and is simply a dick of unimaginable magnitude.
Seriously, God--would you mind getting up off our collective face? Because I can't apeak for everyone, but I know I'm starting to get a little pissed. You want a piece of this, almighty being? Bring it, bitch!
One of my favorite Prince songs (I'm a pretty huge Prince fan, in case I've never mentioned it) is "Sometimes it Snows in April" from the album, Parade. Despite it's laughably "dramatic" placement in the blissfully unwatchable Under the Cherry Moon, it's a fantastic song. If you've heard it before, you know it's quite subtle, performed with a palpable sense of melancholy. But tonight, faced with the prospect of actual snow in April, I have to take issue with The Artsit Formerly Known as The Artist. You see, I spoke to quite a few people last night about the upcoming storm, and I wouldn't describe anyone's feelings on the subject as "melancholy". More like, "What? Snow? Tomorrow?!! Are you fucking...are you fucking kidding me?!!! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??!!! IT'S MOTHERFUCKING APRIL!!! GOD DAMN IT!!!!" Therefore, a song enitled "Sometimes it Snows in April" shouldn't be a delicate song of quiet resignation--it should be a balls-out death metal onslaught.
I'm watching the Weather Channel right now. Christ, does this meteorologist dude have a boner for snow. He keeps saying shit like "If you're in the New York City area, the next 18 hours or so should be pretty exciting!" Exciting? EXCITING?
(Find your happy place, Finnegan...don't kill...don't kill...don't kill...)
Anyway, on a more positive note...SARS!
Saturday, April 05, 2003
Friday, April 04, 2003
HAVE YOU HEARD THE 'GOOD NEWS'?
You know, people approach me all the time and say, �Christian, you're so charming and self-assured. Just being in your presence makes me realize what a pathetic loser I am. How did you come to be so dazzlingly charismatic? And how can I be more ChristianFinnegan-like in MY daily life?�
Well, it's quite simple, friends. My unyielding sense of purpose comes from my close personal relationship with Alcohol.
And here's the great part: you can have one, too!
If you want to have a closer and more personal relationship with Alcohol, simply ask It to guide you. Ask for wisdom. Look for people who can help you understand Its Word. Most people have a difficult time understanding life's big questions on their own. Questions like "Who am I?", "Why are we here?", and "What if I took a shit right here on this chaise lounge--would anyone notice?".
These are very complicated issues. That's why some people, or �Alcoholics,� have the spiritual gift of teaching. Seek out those people. Learn from them. When a problematic situation arises, ask yourself "What Would Nick Nolte Do?" And if the answer doesn't involve punching, fucking or vomiting on something...well, you're not listening hard enough.
I implore you all: to open your hearts to the eternal bliss that comes from having a personal relationship with Alcohol. You owe it to your friends and loved ones.
You know, people approach me all the time and say, �Christian, you're so charming and self-assured. Just being in your presence makes me realize what a pathetic loser I am. How did you come to be so dazzlingly charismatic? And how can I be more ChristianFinnegan-like in MY daily life?�
Well, it's quite simple, friends. My unyielding sense of purpose comes from my close personal relationship with Alcohol.
And here's the great part: you can have one, too!
If you want to have a closer and more personal relationship with Alcohol, simply ask It to guide you. Ask for wisdom. Look for people who can help you understand Its Word. Most people have a difficult time understanding life's big questions on their own. Questions like "Who am I?", "Why are we here?", and "What if I took a shit right here on this chaise lounge--would anyone notice?".
These are very complicated issues. That's why some people, or �Alcoholics,� have the spiritual gift of teaching. Seek out those people. Learn from them. When a problematic situation arises, ask yourself "What Would Nick Nolte Do?" And if the answer doesn't involve punching, fucking or vomiting on something...well, you're not listening hard enough.
I implore you all: to open your hearts to the eternal bliss that comes from having a personal relationship with Alcohol. You owe it to your friends and loved ones.
Thursday, April 03, 2003
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
TOWER OF HUBRIS: REBORN!
At this point, you�re probably wondering what the fuck you�re looking at. What the hell is this? This isn�t the Tower of Hubris we�ve come to know and tolerate. Where�s that reassuringly bland Blogger template? Yo, fuckbag--exactly what kind of horseshit are you trying to pull?
Well, just as the simple caterpillar blossoms into the glorious butterfly, so has my web presence gone from bare-bones web log to�well, a slightly-more-than-bare-bones website.
So what do you think of the new digs? Pretty sweet, eh? Eventually, this site will have a lot more content�photos, video clips, grandma�s recipes, etc. For now, it�ll just be a place where I can list upcoming appearances and crap like that. It�s all about Google-abilty, folks.
It should be noted that this site has been made possible by Ms. Kambri Crews, who not only provided the inspiration to actually get my shit together and create a web site, she actually did all the actual work, to boot! So any thing you like about the site can be attributed to her and her alone. Say it with me, folks: Thanks, Kambri!
As far as Tower of Hubris goes, things will be pretty much the same, other than the change of template. I hope you continue to check in from time to time.
(By the way, if for whatever reason this site doesn�t look radically different than usual, click here.)
At this point, you�re probably wondering what the fuck you�re looking at. What the hell is this? This isn�t the Tower of Hubris we�ve come to know and tolerate. Where�s that reassuringly bland Blogger template? Yo, fuckbag--exactly what kind of horseshit are you trying to pull?
Well, just as the simple caterpillar blossoms into the glorious butterfly, so has my web presence gone from bare-bones web log to�well, a slightly-more-than-bare-bones website.
So what do you think of the new digs? Pretty sweet, eh? Eventually, this site will have a lot more content�photos, video clips, grandma�s recipes, etc. For now, it�ll just be a place where I can list upcoming appearances and crap like that. It�s all about Google-abilty, folks.
It should be noted that this site has been made possible by Ms. Kambri Crews, who not only provided the inspiration to actually get my shit together and create a web site, she actually did all the actual work, to boot! So any thing you like about the site can be attributed to her and her alone. Say it with me, folks: Thanks, Kambri!
As far as Tower of Hubris goes, things will be pretty much the same, other than the change of template. I hope you continue to check in from time to time.
(By the way, if for whatever reason this site doesn�t look radically different than usual, click here.)
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
MY SPECIAL DAY
Well, as I mentioned earlier this week, today is Decade 4, Day 1 in the life of Fletcher Christian Finnegan. For those of you too high and/or drunk to decipher that last sentence: today's my 30th birthday.
Nothing to report so far -- as of 3:52am, my 30's feel rather similar to my 20's. No sudden urge to open a rough IRA or wear khakis in a non-office situation. No Volvo. No instantaneously receding hairline. My credit rating? Still in shambles. I think I'm in the clear. Whew!
Wait-wait-all the sudden, I feel an unmistakable urge to visit Ikea.
Uh oh.
Now, I know what you more mature TOH readers are thinking: "What, just because I'm in my 30's, I wear khakis?" And let me clear about this, just so there's no confusion:
Yes. You wear khakis.
Oh, they may not be literal, but trust me - they're there. It is my belief (or fear, really) that when someone turns 30, he/she dons a pair of spiritual khakis, never to remove them. It's nothing major, just a slightly different way of experiencing the world--sure, khakis are plenty comfortable, but it's not like you're going to "roughhouse" in them. My 30's won't be overly stuffy and formal, but all the same, I suspect I'll begin making adjustments in my behavior to ensure that things don't get too messy. You'll see me at indie rock shows and business meetings, but I won't look entirely appropriate at either. I'll be the uptight guy trying to look casual. I'll be the schlub trying to look professional. Khakis.
I know this concept will probably anger a few of you, and for that I apologize. It almost makes me not want to mention that, upon turning 40, you'll all be donning spiritual fannypacks. And when you're 50? Spiritual ear and back hair (for women, spiritual chin hair).
Sorry, folks -- I don't make the rules.
Oh, and by the way--
On the chance there are still a few of you I haven't completely alienated at this point, I want to mention that Tower of Hubris is about go through something of a radical re-birth. It will probably happen either later today or tomorrow. Check back and you'll see what I mean!
(Yes, this is my pathetic little attempt to get some "buzz" going.)
Well, as I mentioned earlier this week, today is Decade 4, Day 1 in the life of Fletcher Christian Finnegan. For those of you too high and/or drunk to decipher that last sentence: today's my 30th birthday.
Nothing to report so far -- as of 3:52am, my 30's feel rather similar to my 20's. No sudden urge to open a rough IRA or wear khakis in a non-office situation. No Volvo. No instantaneously receding hairline. My credit rating? Still in shambles. I think I'm in the clear. Whew!
Wait-wait-all the sudden, I feel an unmistakable urge to visit Ikea.
Uh oh.
Now, I know what you more mature TOH readers are thinking: "What, just because I'm in my 30's, I wear khakis?" And let me clear about this, just so there's no confusion:
Yes. You wear khakis.
Oh, they may not be literal, but trust me - they're there. It is my belief (or fear, really) that when someone turns 30, he/she dons a pair of spiritual khakis, never to remove them. It's nothing major, just a slightly different way of experiencing the world--sure, khakis are plenty comfortable, but it's not like you're going to "roughhouse" in them. My 30's won't be overly stuffy and formal, but all the same, I suspect I'll begin making adjustments in my behavior to ensure that things don't get too messy. You'll see me at indie rock shows and business meetings, but I won't look entirely appropriate at either. I'll be the uptight guy trying to look casual. I'll be the schlub trying to look professional. Khakis.
I know this concept will probably anger a few of you, and for that I apologize. It almost makes me not want to mention that, upon turning 40, you'll all be donning spiritual fannypacks. And when you're 50? Spiritual ear and back hair (for women, spiritual chin hair).
Sorry, folks -- I don't make the rules.
Oh, and by the way--
On the chance there are still a few of you I haven't completely alienated at this point, I want to mention that Tower of Hubris is about go through something of a radical re-birth. It will probably happen either later today or tomorrow. Check back and you'll see what I mean!
(Yes, this is my pathetic little attempt to get some "buzz" going.)
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