LET'S ALL SACRIFICE AN INFANT AND PRAY FOR HIS SPEEDY RECOVERY
You know, the last couple of months has been kind of busy for me, so I hope you'll forgive me for letting this juicy little tidbit of news slip by unnoticed. As you may remember, Lord Dio is something of a celebrity here at Tower of Hubris (see July 2, 2002). Let's just hope his little accident was truly accidental. After all, I know he's upset about people using their thumbs when making "devil horns", but this seems a bit extreme.
By the way, I know you Spinal Tap fans are probably bursting at the seams to start making "tragic gardening accident jokes, but I beg you to refrain. Besides, Ronnie James is not the only one to fall victim to a perilous nursery.
Okay, back to your life.
Friday, November 28, 2003
THE DAY AFTER
Greetings and Happy Post-Thanksgiving. Hope you're enjoying the relative peace and quiet of this Friday evening, after spending yesterday being reminded of how much you hate your extended family. Yes, I know your story--you crammed your face with food for six hours straight, in a desperate attempt to not "lose your shit" on anyone. And it's a pretty effective strategy, I think. Just eat and eat and eat until it hurts to breathe. That way, when a relative says one too many stupid and/or offensive things, you can simply say, "You know, Uncle Pete I'd love to punch you in the face. Unfortunately, I'm just a little too fat right now. So consider yourself lucky, bitch. And pass the mashed potatoes."
It actually makes perfect sense that turkey is the traditional Thanksgiving meal. The tryptophan helps to ensure that by the time you are truly at wit's end and ready to mow down your entire clan with a sub-machine gun, it'll be nippy-nap time. "What did you just say to me, Aunt Carol? You...I can't believe...you... Okay, THAT'S IT: I'M GOING TO KILL EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU MOTHER--Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."
I should note that I am, of course, describing your extended families, not mine. All of my aunts/uncles/cousins are kind and levelheaded. Of course, this may be because most of them are reformed alcoholics, which means that all of our holiday functions are bone dry. I often regret that I am not old enough to remember the liquor-soaked Finnegan family holidays--you know, the evenings that convinced some of them to clean up their acts. I feel like a kid who was ten minutes too late for the circus. But all of my dad's relatives are top-notch folks. I don't really have much contact with family on my mother's side, being that they all live in Georgia. But I have the feeling that they could have supplied me with the angry and potentially violent Thanksgiving festivities I so gleefully mythologize. I often think about what it would be like to be forced to spend long periods of time with my now-deceased "Southern gent" of a grandfather, who used to call my house routinely to make sure that neither my older brother or I was dating a black girl.
No, I'm not joking about this.
I should mention that my Thanksgiving kicked ass. Due to my rather hectic travel schedule over the past couple months, and to avoid the LA Riots-esque feel of Penn Station on Thanksgiving weekend (seriously, it's fucking brutal), Kambri and I decided to stay in scenic Astoria and cook a Lil' Butterball for ourselves. It was, perhaps, the most delicious Thanksgiving dinner I've ever tasted and I have my very beautiful girlfriend to thank for it.
(I am so gonna get laid for typing that, dudes...)
Oh, and in the spirit of all this "thanks" stuff, thanks for continuing to check in at the good ol' Tower of Hubris. You are all the best person ever. No, don't argue. You are.
Greetings and Happy Post-Thanksgiving. Hope you're enjoying the relative peace and quiet of this Friday evening, after spending yesterday being reminded of how much you hate your extended family. Yes, I know your story--you crammed your face with food for six hours straight, in a desperate attempt to not "lose your shit" on anyone. And it's a pretty effective strategy, I think. Just eat and eat and eat until it hurts to breathe. That way, when a relative says one too many stupid and/or offensive things, you can simply say, "You know, Uncle Pete I'd love to punch you in the face. Unfortunately, I'm just a little too fat right now. So consider yourself lucky, bitch. And pass the mashed potatoes."
It actually makes perfect sense that turkey is the traditional Thanksgiving meal. The tryptophan helps to ensure that by the time you are truly at wit's end and ready to mow down your entire clan with a sub-machine gun, it'll be nippy-nap time. "What did you just say to me, Aunt Carol? You...I can't believe...you... Okay, THAT'S IT: I'M GOING TO KILL EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU MOTHER--Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."
I should note that I am, of course, describing your extended families, not mine. All of my aunts/uncles/cousins are kind and levelheaded. Of course, this may be because most of them are reformed alcoholics, which means that all of our holiday functions are bone dry. I often regret that I am not old enough to remember the liquor-soaked Finnegan family holidays--you know, the evenings that convinced some of them to clean up their acts. I feel like a kid who was ten minutes too late for the circus. But all of my dad's relatives are top-notch folks. I don't really have much contact with family on my mother's side, being that they all live in Georgia. But I have the feeling that they could have supplied me with the angry and potentially violent Thanksgiving festivities I so gleefully mythologize. I often think about what it would be like to be forced to spend long periods of time with my now-deceased "Southern gent" of a grandfather, who used to call my house routinely to make sure that neither my older brother or I was dating a black girl.
No, I'm not joking about this.
I should mention that my Thanksgiving kicked ass. Due to my rather hectic travel schedule over the past couple months, and to avoid the LA Riots-esque feel of Penn Station on Thanksgiving weekend (seriously, it's fucking brutal), Kambri and I decided to stay in scenic Astoria and cook a Lil' Butterball for ourselves. It was, perhaps, the most delicious Thanksgiving dinner I've ever tasted and I have my very beautiful girlfriend to thank for it.
(I am so gonna get laid for typing that, dudes...)
Oh, and in the spirit of all this "thanks" stuff, thanks for continuing to check in at the good ol' Tower of Hubris. You are all the best person ever. No, don't argue. You are.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
THOUGHTS ON HOLIDAYS (SPECIFICALLY THANKSGIVING)
* Tomorrow officially marks the beginning of the holiday season--or, as I like to call it, "March Madness for alcoholics". Between now and the beginning of 2004, I suspect I'll be drinking enough to merit my own Tom Waits song. In anticipation, I've been doing some heavy stretching first thing every morning. Last year, I came in totally out of game shape and I ended up spraining my liver after a paltry four Christmas parties.
* I've always considered Thanksgiving to be the mentally retarded younger brother of the holiday family--frustrating, kind of a pain in the ass to make time for, yet still somehow able to warm your heart from time to time. Christmas is the cool older sister who occasionally loans you money, and Easter is the cousin you used to hang out with all the time as kids but haven't really spoken to since he got all religious 'n shit. July 4th is the boring adopted Korean kid whom everyone seems to think the world of, like he's some freakin' golden boy, or something. And Valentines Day? Valentines Day is the really great chick who eventually got sick of your bullshit.
* There aren't any Google entries for the phrase "hot pilgrim sex". You know, FYI.
* Tomorrow officially marks the beginning of the holiday season--or, as I like to call it, "March Madness for alcoholics". Between now and the beginning of 2004, I suspect I'll be drinking enough to merit my own Tom Waits song. In anticipation, I've been doing some heavy stretching first thing every morning. Last year, I came in totally out of game shape and I ended up spraining my liver after a paltry four Christmas parties.
* I've always considered Thanksgiving to be the mentally retarded younger brother of the holiday family--frustrating, kind of a pain in the ass to make time for, yet still somehow able to warm your heart from time to time. Christmas is the cool older sister who occasionally loans you money, and Easter is the cousin you used to hang out with all the time as kids but haven't really spoken to since he got all religious 'n shit. July 4th is the boring adopted Korean kid whom everyone seems to think the world of, like he's some freakin' golden boy, or something. And Valentines Day? Valentines Day is the really great chick who eventually got sick of your bullshit.
* There aren't any Google entries for the phrase "hot pilgrim sex". You know, FYI.
Monday, November 24, 2003
BASES COVERED
I'm about to go hypertext nutty!
First off, as maybe a couple of you know, I am a contributing writer for Jest Magazine, an incredibly great new(ish) humor monthly published here in NYC. In fact, most of that "Favorite Album/Movie" stuff I post on this site ends up in there. In addition to that, some of the best comedy writers in New York (including writers for "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" and "Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn") submit really great essays, cartoons and random flights of whimsy.
Why do I bring this up, you ask? Because tonight and tonight only, NYC's best comedy show, "Eating It" at Luna Lounge is hosting an event called "Jest Live", and it's going to kick ass. This is no mere reading--there will be slideshows, sketches and all sorts of other fun stuff. I, personally, will not be reading, but I'll be there with bells on to enjoy the delights of Todd Levin, Bob Powers and Jon Corbett's live interview with a member of the Black Israelites. You should all come out and support that shit. Or, better yet go to the Jest website and subcribe.
Secondly, at least once or twice, I've posted a link to one of my favorite sites, Rock and Roll Confidential's "Hall of Douchebags". Well, the folks at RRC have "taken it to another level", as a rapper might say. They've produced a 22 minute profile of one of HofD's illustrious members, The Legion. It is simply too fantastic for words. It takes a few minutes to load, but if you have a fast connection and want to treat yourself, you really need to go here.
Oh, and if you want to book a celebrity impersonator, "mentalist", or some other kind of marginal jackhole entertainmer for your next birthday party/christening/wake, here's the place for one stop shopping! (BTW, This cornocopeia of pathos was brought to my attention by Sir Liam)
C'est finit!
I'm about to go hypertext nutty!
First off, as maybe a couple of you know, I am a contributing writer for Jest Magazine, an incredibly great new(ish) humor monthly published here in NYC. In fact, most of that "Favorite Album/Movie" stuff I post on this site ends up in there. In addition to that, some of the best comedy writers in New York (including writers for "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" and "Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn") submit really great essays, cartoons and random flights of whimsy.
Why do I bring this up, you ask? Because tonight and tonight only, NYC's best comedy show, "Eating It" at Luna Lounge is hosting an event called "Jest Live", and it's going to kick ass. This is no mere reading--there will be slideshows, sketches and all sorts of other fun stuff. I, personally, will not be reading, but I'll be there with bells on to enjoy the delights of Todd Levin, Bob Powers and Jon Corbett's live interview with a member of the Black Israelites. You should all come out and support that shit. Or, better yet go to the Jest website and subcribe.
Secondly, at least once or twice, I've posted a link to one of my favorite sites, Rock and Roll Confidential's "Hall of Douchebags". Well, the folks at RRC have "taken it to another level", as a rapper might say. They've produced a 22 minute profile of one of HofD's illustrious members, The Legion. It is simply too fantastic for words. It takes a few minutes to load, but if you have a fast connection and want to treat yourself, you really need to go here.
Oh, and if you want to book a celebrity impersonator, "mentalist", or some other kind of marginal jackhole entertainmer for your next birthday party/christening/wake, here's the place for one stop shopping! (BTW, This cornocopeia of pathos was brought to my attention by Sir Liam)
C'est finit!
Friday, November 21, 2003
WHAT MY FAVORITE MOVIE SAYS ABOUT ME, Part II
THE BIG CHILL -- Hey kids, wanna hang out with your dad tonight? You know, just listen to some tunes and 'shoot the shit'? No? Oh...okay. Have a nice time, then. (sigh)
BAD BOYS II -- You can catch me every other Friday, kickin' it in line at the check cashing place.
SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE -- Be warned: I've been actively planning my wedding day since Age 9.
RUSHMORE -- My adolescence wasn't nearly as traumatic as I make it out to be.
THE BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI -- No one needs one of those fancy little portable phones, you know. Oh, and by the way, what the heck is a "palm pilot"?
THE MATRIX -- In an alternate universe, I'd totally have a girlfriend.
COMING TO AMERICA -- Me, a racist? That's crazy; I think black people are hilarious!
REANIMATOR � Cross me and you�ll wish you never laid eyes on this PC gaming message board.
DONNIE DARKO � Horn-rimmed glasses? Check. Fastidiously �messy � hair? Check. Aloof, couldn�t-be-bothered facial expression? Check. Looks like I finally found the photo for my MakeOutClub.com profile!
A couple more to come, probably...
THE BIG CHILL -- Hey kids, wanna hang out with your dad tonight? You know, just listen to some tunes and 'shoot the shit'? No? Oh...okay. Have a nice time, then. (sigh)
BAD BOYS II -- You can catch me every other Friday, kickin' it in line at the check cashing place.
SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE -- Be warned: I've been actively planning my wedding day since Age 9.
RUSHMORE -- My adolescence wasn't nearly as traumatic as I make it out to be.
THE BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI -- No one needs one of those fancy little portable phones, you know. Oh, and by the way, what the heck is a "palm pilot"?
THE MATRIX -- In an alternate universe, I'd totally have a girlfriend.
COMING TO AMERICA -- Me, a racist? That's crazy; I think black people are hilarious!
REANIMATOR � Cross me and you�ll wish you never laid eyes on this PC gaming message board.
DONNIE DARKO � Horn-rimmed glasses? Check. Fastidiously �messy � hair? Check. Aloof, couldn�t-be-bothered facial expression? Check. Looks like I finally found the photo for my MakeOutClub.com profile!
A couple more to come, probably...
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
NO HABLA ESPANOL
In Sunday's 'comments' section, Ms. Lordana Sabbatinellini mocked my online resume--she very accurately noted that "remedial Spanish" is the kind of bullshit people put down in lieu of something genuinely meaningful. How right you are, Madam! What you may not understand, however, is that a performer's resume functions slightly different than that of someone in more traditional field of employment. The "Special Talents" section, while ridiculously cheesy, is semi-important when going in on auditions. That's where a casting douchebag can take a quick look and say "Hey, apparently this guy can sing. Maybe I�ll cast him that new musical production of Weekend at Bernie�s!�
Similarly, there may come a time when I�m auditioning for a role where I�d need to speak a bit of Spanish�nothing impressive, just a few words here and there. And my having �remedial Spanish� in my resume is my way of telling them �Yes, I can pull that shit off.� It�s not just a language thing�my ability to stumble through a serviceable rendition of Pink Floyd�s �Wish you Were Here� allows me to present myself a guitar player. In the end, �Special Talents� is just a list of the various things you can fake.
Now, have I ever actually studied Spanish in my life? That would be a No. When, upon entry into high school, I was given the choice between Spanish (a language I would find useful on a daily basis) and French (a near-dead language from an irrelevant culture), I for some reason chose the road not worth traveling. So what right do I have to claim knowledge of �remedial Spanish�, you ask? Simple: I spent nearly four years of my life working in the restaurants New York City. You see, at least 60% of every kitchen staff in New York is Latino�same with the busboys, barbacks and dishwashers. This is not a stereotype or value judgment; it�s a simple statement of fact. The other 40% is comprised of Middle Easterners, Eastern Europeans, and the occasional college student or burnout. But there are always enough Latinos so that Spanish is spoken freely and openly.
In fact, I was often communicated to in Spanish directly, from some busboy who wanted his tip-out money or some cook who was angry at me for�well, any number of reasons. And this is how I learned some semblance of �remedial� Spanish. Can I read it? No. Do I know how any of the words are spelled? No fucking clue. But I do have a verbal mastery over a number of aggressive verbal commands, such as:
�Hurry up!�
�Move!�
�Take this!�
�Go away!�
�Hey, asshole!�
�Asshole, over here!�
�Faggot!�
�Hey, you�re a faggot!�
�I said move, faggot!�
�That girl over there has nice breasts!�
�That girl over there is a whore!�
and, �Do you like boys, faggot?�
For some reason, Latino kitchen workers always seemed inordinately concerned with the perils of butt piracy.
I should mention that I also do know one complete Spanish sentence, but that I learned it not from a busboy or food prep guy, but from this Mexican kid I went to boarding school with. The sentence? �Your mother�s vagina smells like beer.�
No, no�you�re quite welcome.
P.S. Despite my brave face on the issue, I still think I'll nix "special talents" section from my online resume. Viva peer pressure!
In Sunday's 'comments' section, Ms. Lordana Sabbatinellini mocked my online resume--she very accurately noted that "remedial Spanish" is the kind of bullshit people put down in lieu of something genuinely meaningful. How right you are, Madam! What you may not understand, however, is that a performer's resume functions slightly different than that of someone in more traditional field of employment. The "Special Talents" section, while ridiculously cheesy, is semi-important when going in on auditions. That's where a casting douchebag can take a quick look and say "Hey, apparently this guy can sing. Maybe I�ll cast him that new musical production of Weekend at Bernie�s!�
Similarly, there may come a time when I�m auditioning for a role where I�d need to speak a bit of Spanish�nothing impressive, just a few words here and there. And my having �remedial Spanish� in my resume is my way of telling them �Yes, I can pull that shit off.� It�s not just a language thing�my ability to stumble through a serviceable rendition of Pink Floyd�s �Wish you Were Here� allows me to present myself a guitar player. In the end, �Special Talents� is just a list of the various things you can fake.
Now, have I ever actually studied Spanish in my life? That would be a No. When, upon entry into high school, I was given the choice between Spanish (a language I would find useful on a daily basis) and French (a near-dead language from an irrelevant culture), I for some reason chose the road not worth traveling. So what right do I have to claim knowledge of �remedial Spanish�, you ask? Simple: I spent nearly four years of my life working in the restaurants New York City. You see, at least 60% of every kitchen staff in New York is Latino�same with the busboys, barbacks and dishwashers. This is not a stereotype or value judgment; it�s a simple statement of fact. The other 40% is comprised of Middle Easterners, Eastern Europeans, and the occasional college student or burnout. But there are always enough Latinos so that Spanish is spoken freely and openly.
In fact, I was often communicated to in Spanish directly, from some busboy who wanted his tip-out money or some cook who was angry at me for�well, any number of reasons. And this is how I learned some semblance of �remedial� Spanish. Can I read it? No. Do I know how any of the words are spelled? No fucking clue. But I do have a verbal mastery over a number of aggressive verbal commands, such as:
�Hurry up!�
�Move!�
�Take this!�
�Go away!�
�Hey, asshole!�
�Asshole, over here!�
�Faggot!�
�Hey, you�re a faggot!�
�I said move, faggot!�
�That girl over there has nice breasts!�
�That girl over there is a whore!�
and, �Do you like boys, faggot?�
For some reason, Latino kitchen workers always seemed inordinately concerned with the perils of butt piracy.
I should mention that I also do know one complete Spanish sentence, but that I learned it not from a busboy or food prep guy, but from this Mexican kid I went to boarding school with. The sentence? �Your mother�s vagina smells like beer.�
No, no�you�re quite welcome.
P.S. Despite my brave face on the issue, I still think I'll nix "special talents" section from my online resume. Viva peer pressure!
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
THIS SITE BLOWS, MAN.
I'm too damned busy. Fuck. Tired. Going to bed.
I suck.
Sorry.
I'll write something good tomorrow night. Until then, why not revisit the magic that is David?
(I genuinely pity those of you who are unable to get this to load properly.)
I'm too damned busy. Fuck. Tired. Going to bed.
I suck.
Sorry.
I'll write something good tomorrow night. Until then, why not revisit the magic that is David?
(I genuinely pity those of you who are unable to get this to load properly.)
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Thursday, November 13, 2003
QUICKIE
I'm still in Cali, this time at an internet cafe in Riverside. I'll continue the zoo anecdotes when I'm in the cozy (and free) confines of my own living room tonight/tomorrow morning. Until then, I will just say that tonight's comedy show at UC Riverside was slightly underattended. I was told my the Student Activities people that this was because of the major storm currently pounding inland California. I should note that this "major storm" is little more than a persistent drizzle. I'm not kidding--if I was in New York and had to walk somewhere in this weather, I probably wouldn't even bring an umbrella with me. And yet, everyone here is acting as if the apocalypse has arrived. The local news was in panic mode--round the clock coverage, storm warnings scrolling accross the bottom of the screen. The message read something like "WARNING: A STRANGE UNKNOWN LIQUID SEEMS TO BE FALLING FROM THE SKY! UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU ATTEMPT TO LEAVE YOUR HOME! THIS IS IT, FOLKS! DOOMSDAY! BOARD UP YOUR WINDOWS, EUTHANIZE YOUR PETS, AND MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR GOD! AAAIIIIIIGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!
Pussies.
In other news, the "Budget Motel" I'm bedding down in tonight is perhaps the shittiest place I've ever stayed. The whole place has that intense ammonia scent that I associate with kindergarten bathroom stalls and peep show theaters. It's the kind of smell that makes you ask yourself "What the hell kind of substances are they mopping up around here that would require such a ballistic cleaning agent scent?" Definitely something to ponder. I don't think I'll pull back the covers, lest I acquite Hepatitis.
I'm still in Cali, this time at an internet cafe in Riverside. I'll continue the zoo anecdotes when I'm in the cozy (and free) confines of my own living room tonight/tomorrow morning. Until then, I will just say that tonight's comedy show at UC Riverside was slightly underattended. I was told my the Student Activities people that this was because of the major storm currently pounding inland California. I should note that this "major storm" is little more than a persistent drizzle. I'm not kidding--if I was in New York and had to walk somewhere in this weather, I probably wouldn't even bring an umbrella with me. And yet, everyone here is acting as if the apocalypse has arrived. The local news was in panic mode--round the clock coverage, storm warnings scrolling accross the bottom of the screen. The message read something like "WARNING: A STRANGE UNKNOWN LIQUID SEEMS TO BE FALLING FROM THE SKY! UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU ATTEMPT TO LEAVE YOUR HOME! THIS IS IT, FOLKS! DOOMSDAY! BOARD UP YOUR WINDOWS, EUTHANIZE YOUR PETS, AND MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR GOD! AAAIIIIIIGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!
Pussies.
In other news, the "Budget Motel" I'm bedding down in tonight is perhaps the shittiest place I've ever stayed. The whole place has that intense ammonia scent that I associate with kindergarten bathroom stalls and peep show theaters. It's the kind of smell that makes you ask yourself "What the hell kind of substances are they mopping up around here that would require such a ballistic cleaning agent scent?" Definitely something to ponder. I don't think I'll pull back the covers, lest I acquite Hepatitis.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
A PLACE WE CALL THE ZOO*
So I spent most of yesterday afternoon at the world famous San Diego Zoo, home of renowned late night talk show guest Jack Hannah, if I'm not mistaken. It was...well, different. So what did a almost-as-jaded-as-he-pretends-to-be city boy like me think of his adventure in the climate-controlled, wheelchair accessible safari?
Well, the main thing I noticed was that all the "wild" animals in the San Diego Zoo are notably more civilized than the human beings paying to look at them. The various rhinos, gazelles and giant anteaters seem to have a decidedly laidback attitude about life--they're not out to impress anyone and they certainly don't feel the need to draw attention to themselves. Humans, on the other hand, tend to act like complete morons. From a sociological standpoint, I think watching an African warthog casually mill around in a pile of hay doesn't provide nearly the intellectual appeal as watching a pudgy, fannypacked housewife scream obscenities at her children from 75 yards away, while simultaneously trying to operate a camcorder and eat an ice cream cone. And the thousands of rampaging children are even worse. The run around unsupervised, throw shit at eachother, violently bang on the glass to try and get attention--in short, acting like monkeys. But actually, now that I've been to the zoo and actually seen the animals do their thing, I can say that to compare children to monkeys is an egregious insult to monkeys. No, the monkeys were not jumping around like howling mongoloids, they pretty much just sat there, eating, sleeping, and occasionally pulling clumps of crap from their ratty hair. In this, it seems to me that monkeys are not unlike potheads.
There's more to write about my zoo experience, but just writing this has cost me almost $7.00. See how committed I am to the world of bloggery? I'll write more later.
Go out and punch a child in the face for me.
* That's from a Scorpions song, I'll have you know. I'm extremely cool.
So I spent most of yesterday afternoon at the world famous San Diego Zoo, home of renowned late night talk show guest Jack Hannah, if I'm not mistaken. It was...well, different. So what did a almost-as-jaded-as-he-pretends-to-be city boy like me think of his adventure in the climate-controlled, wheelchair accessible safari?
Well, the main thing I noticed was that all the "wild" animals in the San Diego Zoo are notably more civilized than the human beings paying to look at them. The various rhinos, gazelles and giant anteaters seem to have a decidedly laidback attitude about life--they're not out to impress anyone and they certainly don't feel the need to draw attention to themselves. Humans, on the other hand, tend to act like complete morons. From a sociological standpoint, I think watching an African warthog casually mill around in a pile of hay doesn't provide nearly the intellectual appeal as watching a pudgy, fannypacked housewife scream obscenities at her children from 75 yards away, while simultaneously trying to operate a camcorder and eat an ice cream cone. And the thousands of rampaging children are even worse. The run around unsupervised, throw shit at eachother, violently bang on the glass to try and get attention--in short, acting like monkeys. But actually, now that I've been to the zoo and actually seen the animals do their thing, I can say that to compare children to monkeys is an egregious insult to monkeys. No, the monkeys were not jumping around like howling mongoloids, they pretty much just sat there, eating, sleeping, and occasionally pulling clumps of crap from their ratty hair. In this, it seems to me that monkeys are not unlike potheads.
There's more to write about my zoo experience, but just writing this has cost me almost $7.00. See how committed I am to the world of bloggery? I'll write more later.
Go out and punch a child in the face for me.
* That's from a Scorpions song, I'll have you know. I'm extremely cool.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
SAN DIEGO: A VISITOR'S GUIDE
I posted something last night and it didn't take. What the F? I'm spending $.20 a minute to sit in a San Diego Kinko's to write lame jokey-jokes for a bunch of anonymous people in Internetland, and it doesn't even work? Lame, dude. Real lame.
Well, I'm trying it again.
Here are my grades for San Diego, after about 22 hours of being here:
PEOPLE: B
Note: Everyone here is ridiculously friendly, but there seems to be a high number of belligerent retarded people here. Not sure why. I've already seen two, myabe three (One of them was just a drunken homeless guy, I think). I was warned to back away from one guy, while getting my lunch just a few minutes ago. "You should probably take a few steps back," his handler said, "He likes to grab."
WEATHER: A-
Note: 74 degrees, mo-fo! Sweeeet. Still, I give it a minus, simply because I can't help but imagine how brutal it must be from May to September
NIGHTLIFE: D
Note: I'm staying in the "Gaslamp Quarter", which is supposed to be quaint, I suppose. But it feels like an outdoor liquor mall. Lots of cheesy theme bars, lots of really loud "blues" bands, a la Ghost World. Last night, I went out looking for a quick bite to eat at 8:30pm, and all of the take out places were closed. 8:30pm!! So I asked the desk woman at my hotel where I could go for a quiet burger and a beer--somewhere laidback. She told me she knew just the place: TGI Fridays. Sigh.
THE ZOO: To be announced
Note: I'm on my way there now. All will be revealed.
I posted something last night and it didn't take. What the F? I'm spending $.20 a minute to sit in a San Diego Kinko's to write lame jokey-jokes for a bunch of anonymous people in Internetland, and it doesn't even work? Lame, dude. Real lame.
Well, I'm trying it again.
Here are my grades for San Diego, after about 22 hours of being here:
PEOPLE: B
Note: Everyone here is ridiculously friendly, but there seems to be a high number of belligerent retarded people here. Not sure why. I've already seen two, myabe three (One of them was just a drunken homeless guy, I think). I was warned to back away from one guy, while getting my lunch just a few minutes ago. "You should probably take a few steps back," his handler said, "He likes to grab."
WEATHER: A-
Note: 74 degrees, mo-fo! Sweeeet. Still, I give it a minus, simply because I can't help but imagine how brutal it must be from May to September
NIGHTLIFE: D
Note: I'm staying in the "Gaslamp Quarter", which is supposed to be quaint, I suppose. But it feels like an outdoor liquor mall. Lots of cheesy theme bars, lots of really loud "blues" bands, a la Ghost World. Last night, I went out looking for a quick bite to eat at 8:30pm, and all of the take out places were closed. 8:30pm!! So I asked the desk woman at my hotel where I could go for a quiet burger and a beer--somewhere laidback. She told me she knew just the place: TGI Fridays. Sigh.
THE ZOO: To be announced
Note: I'm on my way there now. All will be revealed.
SAN DIEGO UPDATE
I went out at 8:30pm (Pacific Time) to get a quick bite to eat and found that pretty much all of the fast food places had already closed. What the fuck? Oh, and I'm currently spending $.20 a minute at Kinko's just to type shit like that.
In other news, I wore makeup today. I'm going to go back to my hotel room now, set up the mirror in front of my bed, and masturbate straight through 'till daybreak.
Sleep well!
I went out at 8:30pm (Pacific Time) to get a quick bite to eat and found that pretty much all of the fast food places had already closed. What the fuck? Oh, and I'm currently spending $.20 a minute at Kinko's just to type shit like that.
In other news, I wore makeup today. I'm going to go back to my hotel room now, set up the mirror in front of my bed, and masturbate straight through 'till daybreak.
Sleep well!
Monday, November 10, 2003
ON THE PLANE AGAIN
I'm about to fly to San Diego for a top secret mission (which I'll write about it in a few days). I was going to get up early (earlier)and write a fantastic blog entry, but I repeatedly hit the snooze until it was so late that the time on the clock jolted me from my warm bed. I'm still way too fucking tired. Boo damned hoo.
I guess I shouldn't have spent four hours last night watching this.
I'll check in from from the sunny Southwest tonight or tomorrow morning. Until then, nobody touch my stuff.
I'm about to fly to San Diego for a top secret mission (which I'll write about it in a few days). I was going to get up early (earlier)and write a fantastic blog entry, but I repeatedly hit the snooze until it was so late that the time on the clock jolted me from my warm bed. I'm still way too fucking tired. Boo damned hoo.
I guess I shouldn't have spent four hours last night watching this.
I'll check in from from the sunny Southwest tonight or tomorrow morning. Until then, nobody touch my stuff.
Friday, November 07, 2003
8 MINUTE BLOG ENTRY
Inspired by the "8 Minute Abs" exercise craze, this is my "8 Minute Blog Entry". People think that you need to spend hours a day writing in order to keep their websites fit and interesting, but I am here to tell you that by spending only 8 minutes a day, three or four times a week, you can sculpt that sexy blog you've always wanted. How does it work, you ask? Well, you simply sit down and write nonstop for 8 minutes, and whatever comes out, comes out. But wait, you might ask, how are you going to write anything remotely funny and/or interesting in 8 minutes? Well, I'd answer that question, but I don't really have time right now. You see, the important thing is simply that I keep typing for the entire 8 minutes. So what now? I've convinced myself to type, but I have absolutely nothing to say. Well, I could complain about how I had to get up at 7:40 this morning. You see, I'm more a 10, 11:00am kind of guy. this morning crap doesn't agree with me. And yet, I'm still slogging through a stupid paragraph or tow, simply because I care about you, the TOH reader. How about some respect, here? I can't be interesting every day. No, there are going to be those days when you say Man, this site sucks shit--I'm going to go look at naked teenage boys, instead. But that's okay, folks. I'm not going for perpetual brilliance, here. I figure, if I can pinch off two or three relatively funny entries a week (yes, I know: wonderful image), that would be better than most of these silly little blog thingies. Christ, only a minute left? This just shows you what an incredibly shitty typist I am. Seriously, I think I type something like 12 words a minute. Shit, I have to type something interesting before the 8 minutes is up. Thinking...thinking...thinking... Well, there was this one time where I was--
Sorry, time's up. Man, what a workout.
Inspired by the "8 Minute Abs" exercise craze, this is my "8 Minute Blog Entry". People think that you need to spend hours a day writing in order to keep their websites fit and interesting, but I am here to tell you that by spending only 8 minutes a day, three or four times a week, you can sculpt that sexy blog you've always wanted. How does it work, you ask? Well, you simply sit down and write nonstop for 8 minutes, and whatever comes out, comes out. But wait, you might ask, how are you going to write anything remotely funny and/or interesting in 8 minutes? Well, I'd answer that question, but I don't really have time right now. You see, the important thing is simply that I keep typing for the entire 8 minutes. So what now? I've convinced myself to type, but I have absolutely nothing to say. Well, I could complain about how I had to get up at 7:40 this morning. You see, I'm more a 10, 11:00am kind of guy. this morning crap doesn't agree with me. And yet, I'm still slogging through a stupid paragraph or tow, simply because I care about you, the TOH reader. How about some respect, here? I can't be interesting every day. No, there are going to be those days when you say Man, this site sucks shit--I'm going to go look at naked teenage boys, instead. But that's okay, folks. I'm not going for perpetual brilliance, here. I figure, if I can pinch off two or three relatively funny entries a week (yes, I know: wonderful image), that would be better than most of these silly little blog thingies. Christ, only a minute left? This just shows you what an incredibly shitty typist I am. Seriously, I think I type something like 12 words a minute. Shit, I have to type something interesting before the 8 minutes is up. Thinking...thinking...thinking... Well, there was this one time where I was--
Sorry, time's up. Man, what a workout.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
THE INSIDE SCOOP!
As you may have heard, CBS recently bowed to political pressure and cancelled their $9mil miniseries, The Reagans. Critics, such as have labelled the made-for-TV saga an unabashed hatchet job. They claim that the film is politically biased, meanspirited and historically inaccurate. Among the "problematic" aspects of the The Reagans:
* The scene where Ron proposes to Nancy in a TGI Fridays restroom.
* A since-deleted scene in which Reagan and Soviet Premier Yuri Andropov attempt to settle the Cold War over a hot dog eating contest.
* The implication that Pres. Reagan was somehow connected to the deaths of both Biggie and Tupac. In reality, no link between the President and Tupac Shakur has ever been firmly estalished.
* The casting of That 70's Show's Topher Grace as former Secretary of State, James A. Baker.
* The Reagans portrays the former president as having been insensitive to those afflicted with AIDS. A family spokesperson has gone to great lengths to point out that the former president never discriminated between AIDS sufferers and other "hellbound buttfuckers".
* A fiery monologue at the end of Episode Two, where the recently elected Commander in Chief outlines his plan to invade Poland.
* The miniseries' questionable soundtrack and its first single, "Trickle Down (Ronnie's Theme)" by G-Unit w/ Peggy Noonan, feat. Rah Digga and Pharrell
* The scene in which Reagan, upon visiting Washington D.C. for the first time, declares (in a Cuban accent), "This town is like a great big pussy just waiting to get fucked."
* Really crappy CGI
* The shocking final scene of the miniseries, in which Pres. Reagan reveals that the whole "Alzheimers thing" is just a ploy to stay out of prison.
Go figure.
As you may have heard, CBS recently bowed to political pressure and cancelled their $9mil miniseries, The Reagans. Critics, such as have labelled the made-for-TV saga an unabashed hatchet job. They claim that the film is politically biased, meanspirited and historically inaccurate. Among the "problematic" aspects of the The Reagans:
* The scene where Ron proposes to Nancy in a TGI Fridays restroom.
* A since-deleted scene in which Reagan and Soviet Premier Yuri Andropov attempt to settle the Cold War over a hot dog eating contest.
* The implication that Pres. Reagan was somehow connected to the deaths of both Biggie and Tupac. In reality, no link between the President and Tupac Shakur has ever been firmly estalished.
* The casting of That 70's Show's Topher Grace as former Secretary of State, James A. Baker.
* The Reagans portrays the former president as having been insensitive to those afflicted with AIDS. A family spokesperson has gone to great lengths to point out that the former president never discriminated between AIDS sufferers and other "hellbound buttfuckers".
* A fiery monologue at the end of Episode Two, where the recently elected Commander in Chief outlines his plan to invade Poland.
* The miniseries' questionable soundtrack and its first single, "Trickle Down (Ronnie's Theme)" by G-Unit w/ Peggy Noonan, feat. Rah Digga and Pharrell
* The scene in which Reagan, upon visiting Washington D.C. for the first time, declares (in a Cuban accent), "This town is like a great big pussy just waiting to get fucked."
* Really crappy CGI
* The shocking final scene of the miniseries, in which Pres. Reagan reveals that the whole "Alzheimers thing" is just a ploy to stay out of prison.
Go figure.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
BUSY ME
While you're visiting the wonderful Tower of Hubris site, make sure to read up on combat strategy.
Oh, and remember: Christmas is right around the corner!
While you're visiting the wonderful Tower of Hubris site, make sure to read up on combat strategy.
Oh, and remember: Christmas is right around the corner!
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Fuck, albums--it's time to expand my creative repetoire (in a very obvious way). It's...
WHAT MY FAVORITE MOVIE SAYS ABOUT ME!
My favorite movie (or "film", if you're a dick) is:
AUSTIN POWERS IN GOLDMEMBER -- I consider myself the funniest guy in Accounts Receivable.
LOVE STORY -- I am doomed to a life of romantic disappointment.
RESEVOIR DOGS -- Check out my extensive collection of pronographic Japanese comic books!
THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION -- Just because I consider myself extremely philosophical, don't make the mistake of assuming I've actually read any philosophy.
PRETTY WOMAN -- My sorority sisters and I compete to see how many free drinks we can con guys into buying us.
MIDNIGHT EXPRESS -- Until I work up the courage to tell my wife I'm gay, this will have to do.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S -- I'm not nearly as cute and idiosyncratic as I fancy myself.
THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK -- I wonder what George Lucas is doing right at this very moment. Is he eating? Sleeping? Editing? Did he get my letter?
GREASE -- My relentless enthusiasm and determination to see the sunny side of life inspires intense hatred in those around me.
REPO MAN -- Anyone who a) works for a living, b) won't loan me money, and/or c) demands that I pay back the money already loaned to me is a Fascist.
THE BREAKFAST CLUB -- I jokingly refer to high school as being the best years of my life (but the sad thing is, I'm not really joking).
CASABLANCA -- I'm under the mistaken impression that drinking merlot makes me appear deep.
PAY IT FORWARD -- I'm just kidding--that movie sucks!
WHAT MY FAVORITE MOVIE SAYS ABOUT ME!
My favorite movie (or "film", if you're a dick) is:
AUSTIN POWERS IN GOLDMEMBER -- I consider myself the funniest guy in Accounts Receivable.
LOVE STORY -- I am doomed to a life of romantic disappointment.
RESEVOIR DOGS -- Check out my extensive collection of pronographic Japanese comic books!
THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION -- Just because I consider myself extremely philosophical, don't make the mistake of assuming I've actually read any philosophy.
PRETTY WOMAN -- My sorority sisters and I compete to see how many free drinks we can con guys into buying us.
MIDNIGHT EXPRESS -- Until I work up the courage to tell my wife I'm gay, this will have to do.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S -- I'm not nearly as cute and idiosyncratic as I fancy myself.
THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK -- I wonder what George Lucas is doing right at this very moment. Is he eating? Sleeping? Editing? Did he get my letter?
GREASE -- My relentless enthusiasm and determination to see the sunny side of life inspires intense hatred in those around me.
REPO MAN -- Anyone who a) works for a living, b) won't loan me money, and/or c) demands that I pay back the money already loaned to me is a Fascist.
THE BREAKFAST CLUB -- I jokingly refer to high school as being the best years of my life (but the sad thing is, I'm not really joking).
CASABLANCA -- I'm under the mistaken impression that drinking merlot makes me appear deep.
PAY IT FORWARD -- I'm just kidding--that movie sucks!
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