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

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

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

"Miss Me Blind" by Culture Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

Choose from these future favorites:

"TAKE TWO AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING!"

"HAPPY SOLSTICE, PRESIDENT KENNEDY!"

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

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

"HEY, I CAN'T STOP CONJUGATING!"

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

"TRUTH IN ADVERTISING! TRUTH IN ADVERTISING!"

"WHAT ABOUT VALHALLA?!"

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

"LET'S GO METS!"

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

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

10:10am: Peel self from sheets

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

10:15am: Grumble angrily

10:20am: Shower

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

11:10am Check email

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

12:10pm: Dry off

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

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

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

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

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

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

1:50pm: Consider suicide

1:54pm: Consider homocide

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

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

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

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

4:20pm: Wander listlessly to movie theatre

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

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

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

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

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

11:57pm: Get back into shower

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

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

Small Victories:


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

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

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

* Getting a boner at work.

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

* Seeing a close friend succeed.

* Seeing a casual acquaintance fail.

* Drawing nipples on a subway movie poster.

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

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

* Bringing peace to the Middle East

* Punching a child.

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

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

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

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

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

Personally, I'll take songs about dragons.

Worst Songs to Play as a Professional Wrestler Makes His Way to the Ring:

"I Don't Want to Wait" by Paula Cole

"Axel F" by Harold Faltermeyer

"Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" by Wham! (The exclamation point is part of the name, by the way)

"Precious and Few" by Climax

"Music Box Dancer" as performed by Richard Clayderman

"Wet Dream" by Kip Adotta

"Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce

"Gypsy Woman (She's Homeless)" by Crystal Waters

"Corner of the Sky" by Steven Schwartz (from the musical, Pippen)

"Luka" by Suzanne Vega

"Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something

"Mandy" by Barry Manilow

Is it just me, or is the Heineken "Keg Can" just...a can? What possible research could Heineken have done to convince themselves that anyone would give a shit? I mean, its tough to tap a regular keg--how the hell and I supposed to connect my pump and hose to a tiny little can?

A little known fact about the "keg can": immedtiately after drinking one, you feel compelled to attend a Barenaked Ladies concert and/or date rape someone.

(NOTE: While looking for a picture of the "keg can" via Google, I stumbled upon this article. The next time you're feeling shitty about your life, just think: you could be a writer for Packaging Digest.)

You should all go and check this out. It's a short film/wedding announcement by two of my friends. You will be impressed.

Low Rent Superhero of the Day: Platonic Sleepover Girl!

Mild-mannered college student by day, superhuman cocktease by night�Platonic Sleepover Girl is fighting crime one baffled frat boy at a time! Armed with a fantastic ass and a complete unwillingness to acknowledge a situation for what it is, our heroine incapacitates scoundrels by locking them in a temporary state of horny paralysis.

Her technique is flawless: First, she befriends him during freshman orientation. Although she claims to have a boyfriend back in Tucson, she spends the next two weeks flirting with him, mentioning on three separate occasions how she thinks thongs are much more comfortable than regular panties. Then, at a Delta Upsilon rush party at which she has greeted the villain by drunkenly sticking her tongue down his throat, Platonic Sleepover Girl casually mentions that her roommate is away for the weekend. Could he possibly walk her back to her dorm? It�s so late�he might as well just stay over.

Back in the dorm room, Platonic Girl is now wearing only her thong and an oversized t-shirt so sheer that the dark of her nipples can be seen clearly underneath. Then, just as the evildoer is about to move in for the kill, Platonic Sleepover Girl calls her boyfriend in Tucson to see how his night was. After exchanging I-love-you�s, she hangs up and turns off the light, leaving only a single burning candle on the windowsill. Confused and not wanting to presume anything, the scoundrel lays back and closes his eyes, as if to go to sleep. Why doesn�t he get under the covers, she wants to know. And why is he still wearing his jeans? He complies, taking off his pants and getting into bed.

�It�s so nice to have someone to �spoon� with,� she says. She�s now backing her rear end back into his crotch, seeminbgly oblivious to his raging hard-on. Or maybe she's trying to encourage him�I mean, this has got to be a hint, right? The hooligan simply has no idea. Finally, after maybe 20 minutes of internal debate, he leans over and kisses her on the neck. She twitches slightly and mumbles something unintelligible. Is she�is she�asleep? How the fuck could she be asleep? Is this girl for fucking real?? WHAT THE FUCK??!!!

What follows is three to five hours of exhausted torture. The evildoer�s arm, trapped under Platonic Sleepover Girl�s head, has long since fallen sleep. The rest of him drifts in and out of delirium, jerking awake every time her body shifts--is she trying to initiate something? What about that time? Finally, as daylight comes spilling into the dorm room, the tired villain drags himself out of bed and angrily puts his pants and shoes on. Platonic Sleepover Girl wakes up long enough to suggest they meet later for brunch. She appears to have no idea why the villain desperately wants to punch her in the face. �Thanks for keeping me company,� she says, cheerfully. �See you at the dining hall!� She then rolls over and goes back to sleep.

The vanquished boy slumps his shoulders and ambles off across the quad, far too weary to pursue anything villainous for the time being�another victory for Platonic Sleepover Girl!

Writing that last list reminded me of a now-defunct hardcore band known as Anal Cunt. Delightful, eh? The music was pure shite, but they had a certain flair for coming up with song titles. I thought you all might enjoy reading the track listing for their album I Like it When U Die. My favorite titles are numbers 7, 22, 24, 35 and 45, but I'm sure you'll have favorites of your own. Track 41's title is infinitely more funny if you know who they're referring to.

Oh, you're quite welcome.

Worst songs to play at a wake:


"Panama" by Van Halen

"O Superman" by Laurie Anderson

"The Last in Line" by Dio

"Let's Hear it for the Boy" by Deniece Williams

"Girlfriend in a Coma" by The Smiths

"Rockit" by Herbie Hancock

"Do That to Me One More Time" by Captain and Teneille

"This is How We Do it" by Montell Jordan

"Feels So Good" by Chuck Mangione

"Aqualung" by Jethro Tull

"Solid" by Ashford and Simpson

"(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight" by Cutting Crew

Hey, check out the URL of the site you get bumped to when you try going to JesusSucks.com.

I don't know about you, but I'm convinced.

Low Rent Superhero of the Day: Captain Tries-Too-Hard!

He's bringing villains to their knees by the sheer force of his shitty personality! Wielding an ever-present nervous giggle and a complete immunity to subtext, Captain Tries-Too-Hard wanders from party to party, thwarting the friendly and well-liked. That's right, evildoer--you're trying to enjoy a conversation with friends when in swoops our hero to bust things up! You are helpless as he launches into an exhaustive re-telling of a Saturday Night Live sketch he saw this one time. He has you locked into a conversational tractor beam, staring at you intensely and speaking much louder than necessary. Every time you take a small step backwards, he comes in closer--his breath is very, very bad. You try to bring the rest of your friends into the conversation, if only to dillute the staggering awkwardness, but they've mysteriously vanished. They're no idiots--they know the forces of social interaction are powerless in the face of such a brutal adversary. Eventually, you make the crucial mistake of pretending to find something he says amusing. Show's over, pal! He'll now reference this conversation every time he sees you for the next three years! He's bold, he's persistant, he forces you to prematurely 'call it a night'. He's Captain Tries-Too-Hard!

Turn on your computer's speakers and go here. You will not regret it.

(This may be a tad slow to load, for those of you on dialup modems. Give it a try anyway.)

Just checking in, folks. I was hoping "Worst Songs to Have Sex to" would get some chatter going, and I wasn't disappointed. I'm up in "scenic" Hanover, New Hampshire for my step-brother's wedding. I'm writing from the Dartmouth College student Center. It's inspiring to think that, all around me, America's conservative douchebags of tomorrow are learning how to live and think in a vacuum!

OK, I'm off to the rehearsal dinner now. I plan on getting drunk on Sangria and giving the bride a piece of my mind". And then, the ceremonial 'lighting of The Fart'.

Remember, friends: you are loved.

Worst songs to have sex to:

"My Life" by Billy Joel

"Taking Care of Business" by Bachman Turner Overdrive

"He Needed Me" by Anne Murray

"Mr. Crowley" by Ozzy Ozbourne

"The Rainbow Connection" by Kermit the Frog

"Heartbeat" by Don Johnson

"You Fill up My Senses" by John Denver

"My Ass is on Fire" by Mr. Bungle

"Morning Train" by Sheena Easton

"The Superbowl Shuffle" by The '86 Chicago Bears 'Shufflin' Crew'

"Revolution #9" by The Beatles

"Shakedown" by Bob Seger

"Welcome to the Terrordome" by Public Enemy

"We are the World" by USA for Africa

Last week I had one of those vicious, soul-crushing ATM visits. You know, where you withdraw some cash and make the mistake of also getting an account balance? If you have any deisre to enjoy your evening, DON'T DO THIS!! When I saw how little money I had in my account, I felt like God had taken a staplegun to my nutsack. I then staggered home and spent the next 25 minutes on the phone with the bank trying to convince them that someone had broken into my account and stolen all of my riches. I was even a bit rude, as I was sure someone had made a mistake. But after hearing the guy run down my various expenditures, I eventually realized that person was me--what the fuck was I thinking buying that autographed watercolor of Mickey Rourke?! When I realized that no one stolen from me, I felt bad for giving the Chase 'representative' hell, but I was too embarassed to admit I was wrong. So I just called him a 'kiddie fucking he-bitch' and hung up. That's what you call a 'win-win'.

So now I put myself to sleep every night by toggling through all of my elderly relatives, wondering how close each of them is to dying and what the odds are I'll be getting any money out of it.

In related news, I'm a scumbag!

Dearest friends,

I'm headed out of town this evening for a wedding in idyllic New Hampshire. I will definitely be posting at some point whilst away, but it might get a little thin over the weekend. Unless the beautiful Hanover Inn has internet access, in which case I will probably be desperate for a reason not to interact with my family.

In the meantime, enjoy this.

(Note: I wouldn't necessarily recommend touring the rest of this site--it's not for the weak-stomached.)

Tower of Hubris, your source for up-to-date entertainment news!

Paging Armageddon. Armageddon, please pick up the yellow courtesy phone.

In spite of terrible reviews, the film version of "Scooby Doo" roared out of the box office gates to a record breaking opening weekend, demonstrating that the American people have exactly 54.2 million dollars more than they know what to do with. Industry experts attribute the film's popularity to its cross-generational appeal, noting that "Scooby Doo" is drawing both stupid children and stupid adults. The film poses actors the challenge of interacting convincingly with a Scooby comprised entirely of CGI effects, a task nearly as daunting as interacting convincingly with Freddie Prinze Jr.

Tower of Hubris, your source for up-to-date entertainment news!

From the "Gee, there's a shock" file:

Professional wrester "Stone Cold" Steve Austin has been formally accused of beating his wife in a dispute this poast weekend. The squabble apparently turned ugly when his wife, also a wrestler, failed to 'tag out' during a contentious game of Scattergories with a neighborhood couple. According to police, Austin locked up his wife in a vicious sleeperhold, from which she escaped by throwing a mysterious white powder into his eyes. After repeatedly slamming her husband's head against an ottoman, the woman climbed to the top of the minibar in order to perform a devastating maneuver known as "The Domesticator". However, Austin was able to roll out the way at the last moment, causing his wife to crash down onto the living room carpet. "Stone Cold" then commenced to pummelling the woman with a foreign object--in this case, a rolled up Pottery Barn catalog. Austin fled the scene when Triple H, The Undertaker and Hacksaw Jim Dugan unexpectedly rushed in from the dining room and broke up the fight.

(I will remind you all that domestic violence is never funny. Except maybe when it involves professional wrestlers.)

Tower of Hubris, your source for up-to-date entertainment news!

Jimmy Neutron, I'd like to talk with you about my special friend, Phillip.

Despite opposition from conservative watchdogs, Nickelodeon is planning to go ahead and air "My Family is Different", a special dedicated to children growing up with same-sex parents. Those trying to block the show's broadcast stress that it's not just the homo-friendly tone that troubles them--there is concern that host Rosie O'Donnell's gargantuan head might cause recurring nightmares for the children sitting in the studio audience. Unfazed, Nickelodeon plans to movie forward with other gay-themed children's programs, such as "Spongebob Squarepants has Two Mommies" and a controversial episode of "Powerpuff Girls" in which the team thrown into emotional turmoil after getting backstage at an Indigo Girls concert.

Tower of Hubris, your source for up-to-date entertainment news!

Finally, a movie to dumb-down young boys and girls simultaneously. Britney Spears has signed a deal with NASCAR to star in a movie set in the exciting world of stock car racing. The good news is that the movie will feature a lengthy nude scene. The bad news is that the controversial scene will feature seven time Winston Cup champion Richard Petty. So if this sounds like your kind of movie, get ready to drive your house on down to the theatre!

Oh, one last thing about the Mike Norton story. I actually ran into Ethan Hess at a bar when home for Christmas about 4 years ago, and he seemed perfectly friendly and mature. I'll admit it, I was disappointed. Assholes should stay assholes, for consistency's sake.

At long last, here is the final chapter of the Lil' Peach saga. Yes, I'm aware it's fucking long as hell. And yes, you'll probably agree that it's a tad anticlimactic. Still, I think you'll enjoy.

(For you new folks, this is the conclusion of a long anecdote that began with my entry of June 8th, so scroll down and start there. Thanks.)


"We're fucked."

Watching the truck back across the parking lot, it was all I could think to say.

Who�s to say what crossed John�s mind at that moment. It�s possible that he was actually ready to kick someone�s ass, but I doubt it. Although he and I both experience feelings of intense rage (another thing that runs in the family), they're rarely directed at other people. No, Finnegan Rage� is of the petty and internal variety�the kind of rage that surfaces mostly in private, resulting in broken video game controllers and fist-sized holes in the bedroom wall. Sure, we�d each been in actual fistfights, but mostly with each other. Being that we�d both inherited the Spaz gene, these fights usually ended in humiliating fashion and always with one or both us crying. That�s about as close to genuine machismo as a Finnegan can get.

Still, John decided to assert his manhood by shouting at the departing Mike Norton caravan. He probably assumed they�d keep driving�he�d perform his empty little gesture, whoever was in the truck would go about their business, and then he�d be able to say he�d rescued his defenseless little brother from would-be hooligans. Unfortunately, he�d put a little too much oomph behind �motherfucker�, and now we had a situation on our hands.

�Let me deal with this,� John muttered, as the pick-up came to a stop. He was making his best �bad ass� face, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow�it was the same ridiculous look he made when playing air guitar. I could only shake my head.

As I mentioned before, my brother and I have never been what you�d call petite. I never made the mistake of equating girth with physical strength, but John had a tendency to delude himself�I�m sure he expected to tower over whoever was about to step out of the open car door. But John had never met Mike Norton and soon discovered that a pudgy 6�1� seems rather unimpressive in the face of a �roid-fueled 6�7�. As the color rushed from his cheeks and the once defiant air guitar face melted into one of open-mouthed fear, I silently forgave my brother for being such a goddamn fucking idiot.

As if performing a military drill, Mike Norton strode quickly over to my brother, grabbed onto his jacket lapels with both hands and began driving him backward like a tackling dummy.

�What the fuck did you say to me?!� Mike Norton shouted, projecting spittle all over my brother�s face. �I�ll fucking kill you, you fucking faggot!�

�What�fucking�you�your�problem?� John eloquently stammered.

�You wanna die?!�

I will say this: Mike Norton had a way of getting to the crux of the matter. And I can say with confidence that my brother probably did want to die�a quick death, the kind that might come from a bolt of lightning or a runaway boulder. Hell, at that moment, John would gladly have taken a swift-spreading case of pancreatic cancer, if it meant short-term deliverance from this horrid scenario.

For a moment, I simply stared. The two combatants were locked together at the chest, swaying back and forth in a Greco-roman style waltz�suffice to say, Mike Norton was leading. John was standing at nearly a forty-five degree angle, staggering back and forth, doing whatever he could not be thrown on his ass.

Eventually, I snapped out of my waking coma and immediately decided to take action. Oh, and when I say �take action� what I really mean is �start babbling incoherently like an amateur sorcerer trying to cast a complicated spell�. I guess I was thinking that if I stumbled upon some magic word or phrase, Mike Norton would simply shut down, a la Robocop. I ran over, tried to wedge myself in between the two of them and began shouting.

�COME ON MAN JUST LEAVE US ALONE WHAT THE FUCK DID WE DO TO YOU PLEASE JUST LEAVE WE�RE NOT GOING TO FIGHT YOU WHAT WOULD THAT PROVE IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MAKE SOMEONE COOL BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER FOR NO REASON WHY YOU DON�T EVEN KNOW ME YOU�RE NOT IMPRESSING ANYONE NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT HOW FUCKING TOUGH YOU ARE COME ON JUST LEAVE HIM ALONE CUT THE SHIT WILL YOU PLEASE CUT THE SHIT!!!!�

While trying desperately to trigger Mike Norton�s aural kill switch, I caught Ethan Hess out of the corner of my eye. Though strictly 2nd tier among my hometown�s many aspiring ass-kickers, Ethan Hess wasn�t exactly a shirking violet�at the very least, he was quite capable of kicking my ass. So I figured it was only a matter of time before he entered the fray. But to my complete shock (and relief), he seemed quite content to survey the tussle from the comfort of the pick-up truck. He had that awkward half-smile on his face again, as if he was trying to convince himself that this was a worthwhile pursuit. He looked almost�embarrassed. If anyone was going to join the fight, it was his little brother, who was leaning out the car window like a golden retriever, grinning from ear to ear. It was a facial expression most kids reserve get while watching the Harlem Globetrotters�the look of joyful expectation.

The ancient Greeks had a term called �deux ex machina� which, translated literally, means �god from the machine�. It describes a clich� from the great tragedies wherein a play�s seemingly irreconcilable conflicts would be summarily resolved in the final act by the sudden appearance of a benevolent god. This god would usually be rolled onstage on a cart or lowered from the �heavens� by some sort of primitive crane, hence �god from the machine�. In the convenience store parking lot, our god from the machine came in the form of a thirtysomething fat woman with a mullet and stirrup pants.

As I continued to shout nonsensically in Mike Norton�s face, the door to Lil� Peach edged open just far enough for the store clerk to poke her pudgy head out.

�I just called the police,� she announced hesitantly. And then, after thirty seconds of silence, �Um�just so you know.�

The local police don�t have a whole lot to do in Acton, Massachusetts, so word of a few teenagers pushing and swearing at each other in a parking lot is cause for SWAT mobilization. So if Mike Norton was going to make anyone bleed, it was time to shit or get off the pot. I could almost hear the internal debate going on within Mike Norton�s skull�it was like listening to a pair of old sneakers tumble around in the dryer. Eventually, it became obvious to us all that the drama of the situation was beginning to subside. Rather than the heroic gladiator beatdown I�m sure Mike Norton was envisioning, this little dance with my brother and me was just starting to feel a bit pathetic, like challenging a retarded kid to a double-dutch competition.

And again, from our mulletted savior, �I�m not kidding. You should all get out of here.�

after a short staredown, Mike Norton tossed my brother aside like a beanbag chair. He then wheeled around to me and cocked back his fist. This was the classic �make you flinch� move. I complied by, well, flinching.

�Fucking faggot,� he said, breaking into a goofy grin. Ethan Hess and his little brother once again broke into laughter�it was probably not the conquest Mike Norton would have preferred, but it would have to do.

As the truck pulled out onto Route 2A, I let out a three gallon sigh of relief. I knew John and I had dodged a bullet, and this in itself was something of a victory.

Or was it? I�ve always considered myself a rather sensitive and intellectual fellow, especially back in my black turtleneck, pseudo-Morrissey days. And if you had asked me that night, I�d probably have said that I wasn�t going to �lower� myself by engaging in fisticuffs with the likes of Mike Norton. But now that I have over a decade of perspective, I can admit that all of my wry facial expressions and attempts at peaceful resolution had less to do with ethics than with the abject fear of seeing my own blood spread all over the pavement.

But let�s say I decided to haul off on Mike Norton the minute he got out of the pick up truck�what�s the worst that would have happened? Sure, a punch in the face or two (or twelve), but with all the adrenaline, I may not even have felt it. The swelling would have gone down eventually, the stitches removed, and I�d have proven to myself that getting your ass kicked is not the end of the world. Instead, I�ve spent the last thirteen years lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and fantasizing about how it might have gone down.

If you�re curious, it usually plays out like this:

As Mike Norton steps out of his truck, I stand calmly on the pavement, my hands resting casually in the pockets of my black leather trenchcoat. I am squinting just a bit and sucking in my cheeks (in a 'tough' way, though).

�YOU GOT A PROBLEM?� Mike Norton, bellows, getting right up in my face.

And then, in an Alec Baldwin-esque breathy stage whisper, my reply:

�Not for long, pal.�

Like a bolt of lightning, my fist explodes into Mike Norton's sternum. Breathless and momentarily incapacitated, he stumbles backward a bit. I step in and deliver a brutal uppercut with the heel of my hand, catching him under the chin. The savage brute is dazed. I grab the front of his shirt and release a vicious flurry of blows to the face, leaving it a bloody mess. Eventually, I relase Mike Norton from my iron grip and let him collapse onto the pavement.

By now, Ethan Hess has gotten out of the truck and is rushing toward me, crowbar in hand (hey, don�t roll your eyes�this is my fantasy). I calmly step aside and bring my knee into his stomach, causing him to drop the crowbar. While he�s doubled over, I slide it across the parking lot with my foot�I don�t need that. Ethan Hess rights himself, trembling ever so slightly. Faced with the prospect of facing me �mano a mano�, his surprised expression lets me know that he has crapped his pants (not sure how I know this--I just do). He turns and scurries out of the parking lot and into the woods.

I return to Mike Norton, who�s moaning and rolling back and forth on the pavement. I stand above his head, make sure I have his attention and then proceed to hock up a major league loogie, which dangles for a good ten seconds before dropping onto his forehead.

Mike Norton has been sufficiently punked.

I walk to the pick up truck, where Ethan Hess� little brother sits, dumbfounded. I sternly lecture him on the perils of violence, homophobia and other types of antisocial behavior. Convinced I've set the boy straight, I toss him a Jolly Rancher and head off into the night, content in the knowledge that I did what needed to be done.

No, it didn�t happen like that. But hey, at least I didn�t cry. That�s got to count for something, right?

Yes, the end.

Okay, if you haven't already, scroll down and read the entries for Saturday (June 8th) and Monday (June 10th), or none of this will make sense. I hope this is of some enjoyment.

I walked outside and stood on the sidewalk in front of Mike Norton�s pick up truck. What followed was a classic game of �questions�, as popularized in Tom Stoppard�s masterpiece Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.

ME: Yes?

MIKE NORTON: Did you just give me the finger, faggot?

ME: What the hell is your problem?

MIKE NORTON: You want me to kick your ass?

ME: Is this totally necessary?

MIKE NORTON: You suck any cock tonight?�

ME: Why do you have to be such a dick?

MIKE NORTON: Why do you have to be such a fag?

A good question, this. Not in terms of accuracy, but in the sense that there�s absolutely no way to answer it satisfactorily. Do you really want to enter into a debate as to whether you are or aren�t a homosexual? How the hell do you battle with Darth Vadar without unintentionally falling prey to the Dark Side? Forget about going the �smarter than thou� route�there�s nothing more pathetic than watching some poor fop try to defend himself against a punch in the teeth with a wry reference to Foucult�s History of Sexuality. Wit is wasted on the truly witless�especially when you�re your brilliant retorts are little more than flowery variations on �I know you are but what am I�.

The argument continued down this road for a while longer, Mike Norton ham-fistedly impugning my masculinity, me half-heartedly defending myself. I would occasionally throw in the word �fuck�, just to make him think I was willing to 'throw down', if need be (I wasn�t). But in an attempt to defuse the situation, I'd also sprinkle in �dude�, i.e. �What the fuck is your deal, dude?� The subtext here was �Hey, why are we even fighting? After all, we�re both just �dudes�, right? Once you decide not to beat the shit out of me, let�s be pals!� It�s a sad and mysterious fact that most �nerds�, �dorks� and �fags� would gladly befriend their oppressors, if given the opportunity. And I suppose, on some level, I envisoned Mike Norton seeing the error of his ways, and then we'd become bestest buddies. Oh, the fun we could have had! 4-Wheelin�, rocking out to George Thoroughgood, mutilating stray animals with a nailgun�we could have been two peas in a white trash pod!

Predictably, Mike Norton didn�t seem interested in making any new friends. His rhetoric had devolved into a simple mantra.

�Fag. Fag. Fag. Fag. Fag.�

Eventually, I stopped speaking altogether. I gave him a �this is getting old� look, which was my way of acting defiant without doing anything that could be interpreted as stomp-worthy. But the truth is, it was getting old. Ethan Hess and his little brother had long since ceased giggling�they just sat idly with hopeful smiles on their faces that seemed to say �this is still fun, right?�

Then, without warning, the truck�s ignition started. I could scarcely believe it. Could this actually be? Was Tropical Storm Douchebag just going to roll right past me without doing any real damage? It certainly appeared so.

Even a halfwit has an innate sense of theatricality, and Mike Norton wasn�t about to let this magical evening end without some sort of punctuation�I could almost see the wheels turning. After thinking for a moment, he unleashed let fly his masterpiece.

�Why don�t you go find somebody�s cock and suck it?�, he rhetorically declared. And then, the coup de gr�ce, �Fuck you!�

Ethan Hess and his little brother once again erupted in laughter. This is exactly what I mean about arguing with morons�how would I ever have been able to convince them that this was not the funniest, most incisive barb ever uttered? Instead, I simply nodded.

As they started to back out, Ethan Hess� little brother, a boy of maybe ten, leaned out the window and shouted �Faggot!�, much to the delight of his proud older brother. It reminded me of a small African village, where the town elders take young boys out on the hunt in order to give them a taste of the kill. I was pleased as punch to serve as a hapless wildebeest for Ethan Hess� kid brother, if it meant I was going to escape with all of my teeth. As Mike Norton wheeled around to head out of the parking lot, I quietly marveled to myself how well I�d handled the whole experience�I�d stood my ground without getting my ass kicked and done so without doing or saying anything too ridiculous. For a wussy, this constituted a genuine victory.

It was around this time that my older brother came bursting out of Lil� Peach.

I don�t know how much of the exchange John had overheard, but he�d apparently decided that it was time to spring into action, like a professional wrestler storming in from backstage to bail out his fallen comrade. As he strode confidently into the parking lot, my insides screamed �FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, DON�T SAY A FUCKING WORD! PLEASE, JOHN! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!� However, what actually escaped my lips was barely audible. Years later, I would feel a kinship with Kate Winslet's character at the end of Titanic as she blew breathlessly into a tin whistle, praying it might make the rescue boats turn around.

�John...no.�

My older brother John, who I love very much, cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted �Why don�t you come back here and say that, motherfucker?!!� A piece of me died.

Mike Norton�s pick up truck screeched to a halt.

Okay, I know your patience is probably running thin. I'll finish this shit tomorrow, and then it's back to silly jokes for a while. Thanks for reading.

We interrupt this coming-of-age saga to remind you all that The World Cup can blow me. The more I see of it, the more I'm convinced that the rest of the world is just plain wrong. I'd rather watch snot dry than sit through another 1-0 "blowout" between Uruguay and Cameroon. While soccer may be great fun for spastic 3rd graders and their fannypack-clad parents, surely sensible adults can find a more gratifying way to spend their exercise and leisure time. Like here, perhaps.

If you haven�t already, scroll down and read the last entry (Saturday, June 8th) in its entirety, or else none of this will make sense. Many thanks.

When we last left our story, Mike Norton was motioning for me to leave the safety of Lil� Peach in order to receive what would probably be a thorough pummeling. Sitting inside the convenience store and waiting it out was out of the question�my self-styled executioner was now sitting back comfortably in his parked truck, a posture that said �I�ve got all night, faggot.� Besides, nights like this were the stuff of suburban legend, and I wasn�t quite ready to become �that kid who hid behind the Pringles for six hours like a little bitch�. No, I had committed the sin of resistance (albeit tepid) and now I was going to have to answer for it.

As I shuffled slowly toward the door, it occurred to me that I was not completely alone in this scenario. No, my older brother was also wandering the aisles of the convenience store�we�d gone on this late night junk food run only to break up the monotony of another holiday weekend in Acton, Massachusetts. For a brief moment, I considered asking for his assistance, which he�d have given without a moment�s hesitation.

My older brother John is one of those kind souls who simply cannot resist doing people favors, regardless of personal consequence. He's also something of a Finnegan family cheerleader, never passing up an opportunity to appear big-brotherly. So had I only asked, I'm quite sure John would have �had my back�. But the way I figured it, my only chance of avoiding a busted face was to pose as little actual threat as possible. Yes, I would meet my persecutors face to face. But my hope was that if I stood there firmly on the curb and absorbed a few dozen witless barbs without responding in kind, they�d eventually get bored and go about their evening�non-violent resistance, as Gandhi would have seen it. But walking out of Lil� Peach with my older brother in tow would surely be seen as an act of aggression, making a brawl all but unavoidable. And �brawler� was not a role John was suited to. For whereas I was a wussy, my older brother was thing only thing worse: he was a spaz.

The �Wussy� and the �Spaz� both have their roots in the same inadequacy: the complete inability to perform feats of physical bravado without calamitous and often humiliating repercussions. The Wussy eventually recognizes this penchant for self-disgrace learns to avoid any situation where it might reveal itself. Racquetball? No, but thanks for asking. Breakdancing? I think not. Fight you? Um, how about we just discuss this like adults? In terms of a practical definition, a Wussy is simply a Spaz with foresight.

By way of contrast, the Spaz is doomed to constantly get in over his head, rushing headstrong into situations so fraught with potential disaster, they become simultaneously difficult to watch and impossible to turn away from. Like the some kid goaded my brother into attempting a jump of what had to be ten feet on Darren Lewis� bicycle.

Some of the neighborhood kids had set up makeshift take-off and landing ramps in the middle of the street in front of our house and were taking turns playing Evil Kneivel when I suppose my brother must have said something disparaging about one of them. The next thing I knew, I was watching in horror as John came speeding toward the takeoff ramp on a bike made for someone half his size.

There was a moment where it looked as if my fears might have been unfounded�despite John being a rather husky child (it ran in the family), he got serious air coming off the ramp and looked as if he was going to clear the jump easily. But then John made a classic Spaz move: he sat down in mid-air. The front tire caught the lip of the landing ramp and both he and the bike did a full ass-over-head flip, landing in a screaming heap on the pavement.

Everyone was speechless. The neighborhood kids seemed genuinely concerned that my brother may have broken his spine, or something equally as horrid. Only after it was firmly established that the Great Acton Bicycle Crash of �81 had resulted in nothing more than a few minor cuts and bruises did the laughter come. Slow, building laughter�the kind that says �We will be talking about this moment for many years to come.�

It was probably at that moment, watching the whole bike debacle unfold, that I personally made the transition to Wussydom. Now that I�m older, I view the Spaz with a certain degree of admiration. How can you not respect someone whose inner voice consistently says �I can do this� when the whole of his experience keeps shouting �Dude, you�re fucked!�? Of course, it�s the kind of admiration that only reveals itself a decade or two down the road. And all grudging respect aside, a Spaz is definitely not the kind of person you want around when you�re trying to avoid getting your ass kicked.

I therefore decided against alerting my brother about my potential ass-kicking and walked out the front door of Lil� Peach to face off with Mike Norton, who was now glaring at me like I�d just punched his mother in the vagina. This was, perhaps, to be a defining moment.

Look, I know this is getting long. And I realize that I really haven�t gotten any further in the actual telling of the story. But I hope you�ll tune in tomorrow for the rest (probably) of this epic tale. Thanks, kids.

Last night, I dreamt that I beat the shit out of Mike Norton in front of the Lil' Peach. This marks probably the 250th time I've had this particular dream.

Mike Norton was a kid I went to junior high and part of high school with in Acton, Massachusetts. He was probably a foot taller than me, which is saying something, as I was one of the taller kids in my grade. He was also a couple of years older than everyone else, having been kept back twice due to a cruel affliction: Unrelenting Stupidity. Seriously, this dude was as dumb as a goddamn ski pole. He once delivered an unforgettable oral report on how much he enjoyed "4-wheelin"--the word "awesome" was sprinkled liberally throughout. Basically, Mike Norton was a 1980's teen movie cliche come to life. And yes, he hated my guts for some reason.

One night, I was standing inside the Lil' Peach convenience store, flipping through magazines and I heard a knock on the glass in front of me. I looked up and saw a little kid I recognized as the younger brother of Ethan Hess, who was sitting in the passenger seat of Mike Norton's monstrously large pick-up truck. Ethan Hess was one of those giggling sycophants who always seems to shadow the school bully--the classic latent homosexual, potentially violent Punch 'N Judy relationship. As Ethan Hess hoisted his kid brother up into the pick-up, I noticed that Mike Norton was hunched over the steering wheel of the idling truck, staring intently at me and mouthing the unmistakable words "Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you".

I should mention that I probably made a rather tempting target. In my younger years I was something of a bully's wet dream: a fat kid who cried a lot. Despite my being bigger than most of the kids my age, I was a complete an utter wussy. This made me a no-lose proposition for any angry kid with something to prove. As such, I spent most of my childhood avoiding confrontation, which seemed to lurk around every school hallway corner. By the time of the Lil' Peach incident, however, I had left my glorious hometown to attend a performing arts boarding school--my time in Acton was relegated to Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. By now, I'd gone through puberty, dropped a lot of weight and embraced my inner Robert Smith. I had one side of my head shaved and I had a liking for black turtlenecks and floor-length leather trenchcoats. So since Mike Norton had last seen me, I'd morphed from nondescript crybaby to budding Poet Warrior, an altogether more tantalizing object of derision.

So Mike Norton contined with his refrain of "fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you", while Ethan Hess and his little brother tittered with delight. Not knowing what to do, I looked back down at whatever magazine I happened to be holding. A minute later, he honked the horn. Then again. And again. Finally, I looked up to discover that Mike Norton had switched over the ever-popular "faggot faggot faggot faggot faggot faggot faggot". To this, I responded the way every defiant pussy responds to a potentially threatening sitaution: I gave him the always-disastrous Tentative Finger.

Now, I have this theory that if you're going to sink to someone else's level, you might as well plant you your feet and square up when you get there--you can't half-ass that shit. Trust me, nothing emboldens a sociopath like seeing his prey offer up a wilted middle finger. The split-second thought process behind the Tentative Finger is "Look, it's fine that you've emasculated me. I'll admit it, I'm scared shitless of you. You win. But will you please let me perform this one pathetic act of resistance, so I can retain the illusion personal dignity?" But in the face of a would-be predator, giving the Tentative Finger is like ringing the dinner bell--all the sudden, I was "starting something".

Mike Norton turned off the engine and motioned for me to come outside.

More to come tomorrow...

As far as the debacle in the Middle East goes, I come down on the side of Israel 9 out of 10 times. But I do have to say that the ongoing creation of new settlements in the West Bank and Gaza is beginning to look like a deliberate "F you". It makes Israel look like the ex-firlfriend who calls you up just to tell you you're never getting your CDs back. And who the hell would want to live in one of these perilous and morally questionable shanty towns? At that point, you might as well throw a "MUHAMMAD CAN BLOW ME" doormat out front.

But just in case you're interested, I found this classified ad in the Hebron Courier:

O PIONEERS!
Newly renovated studios and 1brs available in this
beautiful post&pre-war settlement. Hip, up-and-coming
recently demilitarized neighborhood just 60 miles south
of Dayr al-Dubban. Min exposure. Walking distance
to bazaar. Lots of local flavor! Must have huge balls.
CALL VINNIE @ BANK BONANZA REALTY

Yet another installment of "What My Favorite Album Says About Me":

MADONNA "The Immaculate Collection" -- Although I call myself a feminist, I fully expect you to pay for dinner

STEVIE WONDER "Songs in the Key of Life" -- You can trust me; I'm not like the other guys in the dorm

ANDREW W.K. "I Get Wet" -- No one can hurt me, up here in my fortress of irony

NAS "Illmatic" -- I enjoy making unecessary hand gestures during conversation

ERIC CLAPTON "Crossroads" -- I have to swing by Filene's and Suncoast Video, so why don't we just meet up at the food court?

JOHN COLTRANE "A Love Supreme" -- If not for the Ken Burns "Jazz" documentary, I wouldn't know John Coltrane from Roscoe P. Coltrane

PEARL JAM "Ten" -- I'm nostalgic for a cultural phenomenon that existed solely within the confines of Spin magazine

ROBERT JOHNSON "King of the Delta Blues" -- I think of myself as being from a different era--a handy excuse for why I don't get invited to parties

NICKELBACK "Silver Side Up" -- I'm in the band Nickelback (Because, really, what other reason could there be?)

THE BEATLES "The White Album" I make bland and unassailable decisions in order to evade harsh critique

WARNING: I think I'm about three weeks away from being sick of the Osbournes. Not so much the show, but the family itself. My prediction is that the 2nd season of the show will be cloyingly self-aware and unfunny, much like the second (and undoubtedly the upcoming third) Austin Powers movie. I'll keep you posted as this story unfolds.

PERSON 1: Knock Knock

PERSON 2: Who�s there?

PERSON 1: Harold.

PERSON 2: Harold who?

PERSON 1: Harold, the guy who�s wife you�ve been fucking.

PERSON 2: I don�t get it.

PERSON 1: Just open the door, asshole.

PERSON 2: That doesn�t even make sense.

PERSON 1: Listen, if you don�t open this door, some serious shit is going to go down.

PERSON 2: You should kick that one around a bit more. Is it supposed to be a pun?

PERSON 1: OPEN THE DOOR!

PERSON 2: Like because the guy is hairy, or something? Because that makes no sense whatsoever.

PERSON 1: THIS IS NO JOKE, ASSHOLE!

PERSON 2: Wait. Hold on a second, here. You�re not telling a joke?

PERSON 1: No! You�re fucking my wife�don�t try and deny it!

PERSON 2: Then why did you say �knock knock�?

PERSON 1: What?

PERSON 2: You specifically said �knock knock�. A guy says 'knock knock', you assume he's telling a joke. If you really wanted me to open the door, why not just actually knock?

(pause)

PERSON 1: Because I have no hands.

(long pause)

PERSON 2: HA HA HA! That�s hilarious! Good one, dude!

PERSON 1: Thanks, Pete. See you tomorrow?

PERSON 2: Definitely, Harold. Have a good one!

PERSON 1: You too, pal.

Rejected story ideas from a recent High Times editorial meeting:

"HAVE YOU EVER REALLY JUST LOOKED AT YOUR HAND? An Investigative Report"

"AN INTERVIEW WITH CHEF BOYARDEE"

"ASK SNOOP DOG"

"150 COOL NEW NICKNAMES FOR DOOBAGE!"

"LEO TOLSTOY: Baked?"

"GROW SPLEEF USING ONLY YOUR MIND"

"THAT SHIT IS FUCKED UP: Weird Commercials I Caught Last Night"

"HOW TO TURN THAT USELESS COLLEGE DIPLOMA INTO A KICK-ASS BONG!"

"STEELY DAN: Relevant as Ever!"

"FREE MUMIA! And Other Shit We're For Without Totally Understanding"

Behold, the Antichrist!

Something I've noticed about Russian dudes:

They wear polo shirts to the gym.

And what do they wear when dining at a fancy restaurant? Sweatsuits, of course.

As you may have heard, there's been another break in the Chandra Levy case. Police have revealed that, on the morning of her disappearance, Ms. Levy was logged on to the internet and that the last website she visited was an online map of Rock Creek Park, where her body was eventually discovered. I'm impressed with how quickly authorities are piecing things together, but if I ever go missing, I hope they don't search for me based on my last internet entry. I imagine that would be a rather awkward press conference.

"So officer, do you have any leads?"

"Yes, in fact we do. After examining Mr. Finnegan's computer, we have reason to believe he may have been abducted by sorority sluts. Or perhaps he was the victim of a fatal penis enlargement scheme. We'd like to bring Alyssa Milano in for questioning. And if anyone has information regarding an email sent by someone known as 'Amy from high school', we encourage you to come forward."

Even more horrifying, retracing my online steps could lead someone here.

Or... here.

As promised, I will now try to decipher what guys' favorite albums say about THEM. This is more difficult, as I actually like a few of these albums and can relate to many of the sentiments. Still, I will soldier on! By the way, check out the comments from Thursday's entry there's some funny shit there. Ok, here goes.


My favorite album is:

* PAVEMENT Slanted and Enchanted - Everyone in this room is an asshole, except me. And yes, I know that my t-shirt is too snug.

* THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS Lincoln - Wanna hear me recite the Jabberwocky?

* V/A Best Club Anthems 2001 - I sprinkle first date conversations with awkward sexual innuendo.

* THE JOHN SPENCER BLUES EXPLOSION Orange - I live in constant fear of being found boring.

* RUSH Moving Pictures - If I don�t get your pizza to you within 30 minutes, it's free.

* JAY-Z Vol. 2-Hard Knock Life - I'm under the impression that people are watching me at all times.

* JOHN DENVER Poems, Prayers and Promises - I prefer the term 'making love', thank you.

* PRINCE Sign O' the Times - I will, on occasion, wear a colorful vest.

* SLAYER Reign in Blood - Real life frightens me.

* BERNADETTE PETERS Live at Carnegie Hall - What, just because I know how to dress, I have to be gay?

* DAVE MATTHEWS BAND Crash - I know fraternities are lame, but I'm still probably going to rush.

* MICHAEL JACKSON Invincible - I am from Bulgaria.

As some of you may know, I�m a bit of a music geek. I find that this creates problems in my dating life. In fact, I can mathematically calculate exactly how long a relationship is going to last based solely on a woman�s CD collection. The equations work out like this:

2y = x

However,

z = -x

In this formula, X represents �one week of a happy, healthy relationship�, Y represents �one undeniably fantastic album� (i.e. St. Pepper, Innervisions, etc.), and Z represents �one undeniably terrible album (say, anything from the P. Diddy oeuvre). As you can see, it takes twice as many good CDs as bad ones for a relationship to even get off the ground in the first place. And then there are certain albums that are absolute deal breakers�it�s embarrassing to admit this, but if I'm in a woman's apartment and spot a Celine Dion album, I will be unable to achieve an erection. I feel that strongly about Celine, not to mention her greasy pedophile of a husband.

It's not that I will always break up with a woman for having bad taste in music--in fact, I am far more often the one cast aside. But even when I am the dump-ee, I can look to her CD collection for insight as to where everything went wrong. Certain types of personalities enjoy certain types of music and I can refract that information through the prism of my romantic life. The plain fact is, any woman who likes to rock out to James Taylor is eventually going to come to loathe me. It�s unavoidable.

So you�re probably wondering, �What does my favorite CD say about ME?� Here�s a little rundown of what certain albums say about the people who love them.

My favorite album is:

* MOBY �Play� � I like to think I�m on top of current events, but I�m not.

* BILLY JOEL �Greatest Hits� � I like sex as much as the next person, I just don�t see why it has to be so messy

* SARAH McLACHLAN �Fumbling Towards Ecstacy� � I own a journal, but never write anything in it.

* V/A �I Love the Eighties!, Vol IV.� � I�m not so much a fan of music as I am a fan of my own life, specifically the period in my life that these songs remind me of.

* JOY DIVISION �Closer� � Sometimes I cut myself, just so I can feel something.

* ANI DiFRANCO �Living in Clip� � I did once, but I was REALLY drunk�

* THE WHITE STRIPES �White Blood Cells� � I am a liar.

* JANIS JOPLIN �Box of Pearls� � With this fringy suede jacket and ratty, flowing skirt, no one would ever guess that I�m from New Canaan, CT!

* DAVE MATTHEWS BAND �Crash� � I know sororities are lame, but I�m still probably going to rush.

* ALICIA KEYES �Song in A Minor� � I like to say obvious things as if they�re really insightful.

* CANNIBAL CORPSE �Tomb of the Mutilated� � I have certain feelings I don�t fully understand.

NOTE: If all this seems unfairly weighted against women, it�s only because those are the only people I have sex with (that nasty rumor about me and Mike Piazza to the contrary). Maybe tomorrow I�ll try to imagine what guys� favorite albums say about THEM.

This post contains no hilarity. My sincere apologies. Apparently, Blogger.com had some sort of breakdown this morning, and a lot of the sites (including this one) have been coming up "Page Not Found". I've been told that the problem will remedy itself if I simply post something, so here goes my little test.

This just in: If I have to watch that Mitsubishi commercial with the woman breakdancing in the front seat of the car again, I may kill someone.

I only mention this so that if I do indeed brutally murder someone, my lawyers can use this blog to bring the charges down to aggravated manslaugher.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client is not fully responsible for his actions. I mean, have you SEEN this commercial?!"

Yesterday I prophecized that Creed singer Scott stapp will one day pack on the pounds. Imagine my surprise when I was Emailed this disturbing peek into the future:




I love the idea that even after becoming morbidly obese, he'd stick with the rockstar hairdo. This bit of techno wizardy was passed on to me by the lovely Daegan (I've never actually met the woman, but I'm going to assume she's lovely). Do check out her own nipper keen blog, Things Fall Apart.

Thanks also to friend and NPR personality Adam Felber, who explains all the web shit I'm too stupid to understand (most of it). Take a gander at his site, Fanatical Apathy. It will make you feel smart by mere association.

Here's a new drink recipe for you professional bartenders out there:

THE TRAILER PARK

3 parts Jack Daniels
2 parts Mountain Dew
1 part Immodium AD

garnish:

1 cherry
1 Planter's Cheese Ball

Serve chilled, in a Green Bay Packers coffee mug

From the "I weep for Modernity" file:

How is it that Creed has sold millions of albums but no one will admit to owning one? It makes sense that they're a religious band, since every person you ask about them immediately turns into St. Peter.

"Creed? Um...nope, never heard of them."

But didn't I see you at their concert last weekend?

"You must be thinking of someone else."

Really? It looked just like you.

"I DON'T KNOW THEM!"

And while we're on the subject, I will now make a prophecy: Scott Stapp, Creed's lead singer, will one day become a fatty. I can spot a fatty in-the-making and that dude's got 'Marlon Brando' written all over him. Mark my words!

So let it be written, so let it be done.

I was chatting with a female friend last night and the conversation touched on the age-old tendancy of women to go after dudes with money and influence. I don't really have a problem with this, I just wish women would come out and admit that it's true. Instead, my friend defended her gender by saying that it isn't wealth and power that makes a man attractive, it's his drive to ACHIEVE that wealth and power.

That, my friends, is horseshit.

That's like me saying "You know, it's not that woman's sweet ass I'm attracted to, it's her drive to ACHIEVE that sweet ass!" Sure, I see a great body and I think "Check out that work ethic! She must spend hours on the stairmaster! That kind of self-discipline is SOOOO HOT!"

Here's a simple test, ladies: the next time a fella gets you hot and bothered, ask yourself "Would I want to fuck this guy if he worked in the mailroom?" Go so far as to picture the dude pushing a cart around your office. If the answer is still 'yes', bone away!

It's unnecessary for men to question their sexual motives in this manner. We will find you attractive (or unattractive) completely independent of how much money you make or how many people's lives you can ruin--a well-formed fanny looks as good on a Denny's waitress as it does on a duchess.

Shallow? Absolutely. But it's also endearingly honest, wouldn't you say? Viva simplicity!

I caught "Swordfish" on cable last night. I think we may have finally reached the point in John Travolta's "comeback" where we all remember why we hated him in the first place. If scientists could only find a way to harness Smugness--Travolta could ween us off foreign oil. And that complexion of his has more divots than a golf course for the blind.

FINNY'S TIPS FOR WOMEN:

Ladies, let's put the kibosh on that whole skirt-with-pants-underneath look. Don't you realize that the fashion industry is just fucking with you? They're seeing how far they can push you! I get the feeling that some of you would start wearing lobster bibs if Isaac Mizrahi told you to.

Truth is, a woman wearing pants underneath her skirt doesn't look fashionable...she looks like my mentally retarded Aunt Allie. So unless you enjoy spending your day sipping Orange Crush and sewing together oven mits, pick a look and go with it.

Sorry to have to break it to you this way.

A pet peeve of mine:

The term is "Fifth Wheel", people. Always. It doesn't fucking matter if there were only three people involved.

You see, having five wheels on a vehicle means that one wheel has no reason to be there. Seriously, picture it. See what I mean? That fifth wheel is completely useless, hence the idiom. A vehicle with three wheels? It's called a tricycle, you goddamn twit.

Fifth wheel! Fifth wheel! FIFTH!!!

Just wanted to get that straight. Please pass it along.

THAT OUTFIT COULD USE A SWEATBAND
a poem by Pryce Martinez

There she stands
Her sadness as big as a tree
Always travelling back to long ago
Treading on the sacred ground of her ancestors

On that sacred ground
Under a captive moon
Tremblous and fragile
Fear drops like pellets
I don�t mean the bird kind
Though that�s totally what they are

Can she hear the land calling her
Over distant lands of forever
Utopian dreams betwixt valleys of gravitude
Led astray
Down the path of masterfulness

Urgently, she waits
Sad as a really sad flower
Except for one part of her, which is psyched

Always is a word that describes her fear and longing for her ancestors

Sweet bird of being a young person
Where will she be for now
Every time she hears the wind
Aching for her to be on her sacred ground
That question will remain not answered
But it may be answered
After forever
Not that she will know this
Dreaming of her ancestors and being sad

Why does the word "lonely" have such negative connotations? I prefer to think of myself as just being very "lone". That sounds much cooler, don't you think?

F adverbs, dude.

Yasmine Bleeth is a crossword puzzle entry waiting to happen.

Clue: Yasmine et al (7 letters)

Answer: BLEETHS

(Don't worry, I don't get why this is supposed to be funny, either.)

Tower of Hubris is averaging 32 "hits" a day. That's pretty weak, but it's still more people than went to see Deuces Wild this past weekend. Can we revoke Stephen Dorff's 'celebrity' status yet? That dude is a poor man's Corey Feldman--and Corey Feldman ain't all that expensive. I love the idea that during preproduction for Deuces Wild, some casting person excitedly slammed down the phone and announced "WE GOT DORFF!" You'd sell more tickets by casting Tim Conway's Dorf.

From the "I'm having trouble sleeping" file:

Why the fuck do car alarms even exist anymore? Does any thief STOP trying to steal a car just because the alarm goes off? At this point, does anyone hear a car alarm and actually think "Uh oh, a car is being stolen. I'd better investigate!"? No, you think "some douchebag doesn't know how to parallel park." If companies really want to thwart car thieves, they should start making alarms that shout things like "Holy shit, it's Sean Connery!", or a simple "Check out those tits!"

THEN, my friend, you'd see people come a'runnin.

Hey, folks. At long last, here are those Kenny Loggins tour dates you were asking for:

May 12-14 COLUMBUS, GA: Pudgie's BBQ and Civic Centre
May 15-17 STATESBORO, GA: The Roscoe P. Coltrane Ampitheater
May 19-20 MURRELLS INLET, SC: The Gravy Boat
May 22-24 CORNELIUS, NC: Wicks 'n Sticks (near food court)
May 25-26 TOBACCOVILLE, NC: Agee Vocational Tech
May 29-30 KEEZLETOWN, VA: 453 Berkin st., Apt. 3 (buzzer broken, must call from payphone)
June 2-23 NEW YORK, NY: Madison Square Garden
June 25-26 DELMAR, MD: Gordy's
June 28-30 LITTLE CREEK, DE: Knights for Christ Social Club (whites only)

Hope this helps! By the way, a little birdy told me that Kenny will be unveiling his much talked about reggae version of "Dangerzone" on this tour! Yessss!!!! See you guys at the shows!

BALLAD OF THE TUMBLER,
a poem by Pryce Martinez


What is this spell you have over me,
beloved circus tumbler?

Use me as your mat,
intoxicating circus tumbler.
Lay me on the floor and use me to cushion
your sinewy form as you roll
across my prone body and into my heart.
Watch out for my nuts, though.

Where will you go,
enigmatic circus tumbler,
once the last show draws to a close
and the big top comes down for good?

Will you wander this world
in search of gleeful crowds
and padded surfaces?

Or will you withdraw,
your time in the sun all but complete?

Do you want to me to talk to someone in human resources,
hypnotic circus tumbler?
I could probably get you an interview.

Mysterious circus tumbler,
do you know Excel?

You might have to wear a sportcoat over your tights,
except maybe for Fridays.
Are you cool with that,
fiery circus tumbler?

I should be around after lunch.
Let me know.

I just got finished watching Foreigner on "Behind the Music". I'm now convinced that not all music needs to be gotten behind.

Then again, who knew "Juke Box Hero" was inspired by the writings of T.S. Eliot?

For your edification, I'd like to expose you all to the work of my favorite poet, Pryce Martinez. I think you'll agree that his sophisiticated use of meter and metaphor makes him the seminal versifier of our age. Please, enjoy.



THE WOUNDED
a poem by Pryce Martinez

Oh my god!
I just stabbed myself in the hand!
It hurts so bad! Please, someone call an ambulance!
Forget it, I�ll call myself!

Ow! Oh my god!
I just stabbed myself in the leg!
I was reaching for the phone and I stabbed myself in the leg!
Why didn�t I put the knife down first?!
Oh my god it hurts!

I need to stop the bleeding!
Oh dear god, there�s so much blood!
My belt! Yes, my belt!
I can use it as a torniquet! Oh thank god!
I�ll just go ahead and take off my b�

Ow, my stomach!
I just stabbed myself in the stomach!
What the hell is wrong with me?!!!

Today only: anyone who shows up at my apartment by midnight tonight will be made out with!

(This offer is valid only in the continental United States and excludes Dennis Franz, Anne Murray, Ari Fleischer, Mark Knopfler, the chick who played Kraus on "Benson", and my roommate.)

Dentyne Ice "Arctic Chill" gum: Now with nosebleeds!

So tomorrow's a big day for me: I'm going into the ESPN offices to pitch a new series of sports documentaries*. AGAINST THE GRAIN will focus on athletes trying to push the envelope of professional sports. Profiles will include:


STEFAN JACOBS, INTERPRETIVE SKATEBOARDER
Stefan Jacobs is taking professional skateboarding to the next level. While the Tony Hawks of the world are preoccupied with empty acrobatics and competition, Stefan uses his skateboard as a mode of personal expression. A former modern dancer and performance artist, he uses the �physical language� of skateboarding to explore themes of existential despair, social injustice and spiritual rebirth. Less important to Jacobs are questions like �How high can I jump?� or �Am I able to stand on the skateboard while it�s moving?� The profile centers on Stefan�s struggle for acceptance within the skateboarding community and his �shocking and controversial� performance at the X Games.


ALAIN LeCOMPTE, NHL HAIRSTYLE CZAR
In an effort to boost its popularity, the NHL has named Alain LeCompte �Hairstyle Czar�. His major responsibility will be eliminating the dreaded �mullet� from the ranks of professional hockey. LeCompte was chosen for the position after handling the delicate negotiations that brought Jaromir Jagr to the barber�s chair.


RODNEY �NO FACE PUNCHING� WASHINGTON
In an attempt to bring civility back to professional boxing, former WBC Featherweight champion Rodney Washington has adopted a strict �no face punching� policy, directing all blows to his opponents� torsos. Since then, he�s compiled a record of 0-19, but he believes his message is getting out. Washington believes he�ll return to contender status as soon as the opposing fighters honor his request to please not punch him in the face.


RANDY GEFFLER, NASCAR ENVIRONMENTALIST
The ecological conscience of professional racing, Geffler was the first man to enter an electric car into the Daytona 500. This profile would focus on the challenge of taking on Jeff Gordon and Dale Jarrett in a car that tops out at 48 mph.


JUPITER WILLIAMS, THE �WILLIAMS BROTHER�
This profile highlights the career of budding superstar Jupiter Williams, every bit as dominant in badmitton as sisters Venus and Serena are in tennis. With his eye-catching beads and no-hold-barred enthusiasm, he�s taking badminton out of the country club and into the 21st Century.


Pretty exciting, eh? Hold on to your nards, Sports Journalism--here comes Finnegan!


* denotes 'bullshit'

It's Springtime, and that means it's time to do some tidying up. Now I happen to love being surrounded by chinese food containers, mountain dew cans and unopened credit card statements, so I won't be touching my phsical environment. But I waste a lot of time and energy indulging in some bad habits, and it's high time I did something about them. So for next few weeks, I will be ridding myself of the following bad habits:

- Sleeping (What a waste! I've got places to go, people to see, manifestos to scrawl! Plus, punch drunkenness is cheaper than weed.)

- Dressing up conversations by constantly inserting 'per se' (I will replace it with the far more interesting 'credo quia absurdum est' *.)

- Listening to Journey (It's 2002--I think it's about time I stopped believin'.)

- Phoning my mother immediately after having sex and yelling "Who's the loser NOW?! (At this point, I think she knows I'm The Mack.)

- Stalking

- Flossing (I really need to kick this floss dependency--I'm up to three spools a day. I hear there's a gum you can try.)

- Resisting jingoism (Sometimes I think my built-in cynicism prevents me from enjoying life. So from now on, I vow to go for the gold! To grab that brass ring! To pull myself up by my own bootstraps and take my rightful place in that shining city on the hill! 'Cause that's what this country is about, am I right people? U-S-A! U-S-A! Screw you, Qadhafi!

- Drawing nipples on subway posters (I just feel like I've made my point.)

- Picking my nose (I figure 29 is a good age to go ahead and tackle this one)

- Picking my friends (Henceforward, friendships will be forged based soley on "Hot or Not" ratings)

- Picking my friend's nose (You hear that, Bob Powers? I'm done!)











* I believe it because it's absurd

A message to the band Puddle of Mudd:

That ain't mud, dudes.

Yes, I realize that Tower of Hubris has been dormant since Friday. I apologize to all six of you.

I've been busy working on a new musical based on the writings of Sartre, which I've titled "Existentialicious!" I see Nathan Lane and Craig Bierko as the leads, with Bernadette Peters lighting up the stage as Bad Faith. Bernie's a triple threat, you know. Songs include the rousing production number "Determination as Negation" and the tender ballad "It Doesn't Matter if I Love You (In the Grand Scheme of Things)". You may want to go ahead and get in line at TKTS.

In other news, I stopped dating someone 5 days ago...and boy is my internet search engine tired!

Thank you, thank you.

Hey, anybody want to fight? Seriously dude, let's kick each other's asses! It's totally allowed--Elton John told me so!

Wait...what? It's only Friday?

Oh. Damn, I could've sworn...

Oh well. See you tomorrow night, then!

I buy a lot of music, as some of you may know. The two bands I'm currently enamored with are The Dismemberment Plan and N.E.R.D. This seems to be a trend with the music I buy--great bands, shitty names. So let's play the crappy band name game! Can you pick out the bands whose recordings I actually own from the wacky ones I've made up? Be the first person to get them all right and I'll compose a sonnet in your name! Howz them apples? You can turn in your answers by clicking 'comment', or by Emailing ChristFinnegan@aol.com.

1. Jets to Brazil
2. Death Cab for Cutie
3. Corpus Chrissy
4. Elf Power
5. C'est Bleu
6. The Fertile Crescent
7. Underwater Skeleton
8. Rise Robots Rise
9. Hate Pete, Inc.
10. Super Rock Machine
11. Pigeonhed
12. Druggie
13. The High Llamas
14. Silverwhere
15. Fur Patrol
16. Momma Stud
17. Human Resources
18. Overwhelming Colorfast
19. The Khaki Molestors
20. Baby Spaceman


Good luck!

Have you heard about this whole Middlle East crisis thingy? Wowsers, what a kooky mess!*

*this message has been brought to you by the National Center for Blithe Understatement

Introducing the first in a series of recurring Blog entries I'll be calling "Celebrity Morning Pages".

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

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

Today's 'Morning Pages' have been submitted by famed Hollywood screenwriter Joe Eszterhas, the man behind such classics as "Basic Instinct", "Flashdance" and the pinnacle of all celluloid achievement, "Showgirls". I hope you enjoy this peek into the mind of a true artiste.

(WARNING: Joe likes to 'keep it real')

Herewith:

"I�m so tired. What a night last night. I totally could have fucked lots of chicks. Buying this long, flowing hair was the best decision I ever made. I think today�s the day to start my new screenplay. I�m radiating some serious sexual energy right now, which means it�s high time for me to pen my latest controversial psychosexual blockbuster. Question is, is Hollywood ready for it? Those limp�wristed cocksucker executives don�t know how to handle a guy like me. A guy who knows the streets. A guy who knows the way people think��their wants, their needs, their desires. Hollywood is afraid of my potency, just like that fucking cocktease at the hostess stand last night. Everyone in the club could tell she wanted me. She was sending out serious pussy vibes. (Note to self: make sure to use �pussy vibes� in screenplay. Possible title?) So anyway, this hostess chick was definitely looking to get fucked by yours truly and yet, in order to fit in with what �society� says a woman can and can�t be, she tells me to take my hand off her ass. Makes a big show of it, even! Yeah whatever, lesbian! Go back to college with all of your feminazis, bitch! I�ll show those politically correct assfuckers. You can�t handle Showgirls? Too intense for your little robot brains? Fine! I eat your hatred for breakfast, you Puritan fucks! (Note to self: buy bagels) I figure, I whip up one more Basic Instinct and no one in this town will dare question the artistic potency of Joe Eszterhas! Yeah, I know I already said �potency�, but fuck it��that�s the only word for it. I am potent. Filled with hot, throbbing lifejuice and the world fears me for it. But you think Joe Eszterhas is going to change to suit the whims of a repressed, fascist Judeo�Christian culture? Hell no! Last night I masturbated into a jar. Whoa, talk about random! Oh well, I guess that�s what these things are supposed to be about, right? Stream of consciousness, man. I�m tapping into the deep reservoir of my mind. Who knows what�s going to float to the surface next? Like right now, for instance, I�m thinking about this hot Mexican chick that works the counter over at Carl Jr. And I bet that�s not all she works, if you know what I mean. And just in case you don�t: I bet that chick loves to fuck. But she probably keeps it a big secret. She�s probably comes from one of those conservative, hyper�religious family that tries to crush her spirit and stifle her feminine power. And I bet the only way she can get out from under their thumb is to become a high�priced call girl. Oh, she keeps the job at Carl Jr., you know, just to keep up appearances. But by night, she�s exploring her most secret fantasies in a mysterious world she barely understands. But by giving in to her intense desires, I�m sure she�ll learn how to live life on her own terms�and, maybe, even discover the true meaning of love. Holy fuck, that�s it! That�s my new screenplay! It�s got everything! It�s gritty, honest and best of all, it�s a story about female empowerment!! Plus, I can work in that hot three�way scene I thought up in the bathtub last week. Maybe I�ll audition that hostess chick. Okay, enough blabbering��time to earn another $8.7 mil. Read it and weep, bitches!"

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

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

FINNY'S HELPFUL HINTS FOR WOMEN:

Ladies, don't ever tell a guy he reminds you of your brother. It doesn't matter how damn funny or "handsome" your brother is--it's not a compliment. What you're really saying is "Not only am I not attracted to you, I don't even recognize you as a sexual being". Not even a platonic friend wants to hear that shit, yo.

I just caught a Burger King ad touting their new "Chicken Whopper". Apparently, they'll take fifty cents off the price if you "cluck" when ordering. Has it truly come to this, acting like a chicken just to save fifty cents? As if finding yourself at Burger King isn't humiliating enough. I'm as frugal as the next guy, but I can't picture myself making poultry noises for the amusement of some pimply teenager with a nametag that reads "Ray-Ray".

OK, well maybe I CAN picture it. But it's not pretty.

I wonder if I can get a discount on a regular Whopper by whinnying.

While we're discussing good ol' BK, here's a tidbit for you web-savvy types. If you're ever in midtown Manhattan and need to "surf" the "web", the Burger King on 42nd st and 8th Avenue recently installed a whole row of computers for its customers. Seriously--that's not the joke part. So, you can go and order yourself a delicious Chicken Whopper and then sit down and log on. You think I'd be psyched about this, seeing as I'm CONSTANTLY using the internet. But come on--like I'm going to jerk off at Burger King! I mean, puulleease.

At least give me a curtain, or something.

I wonder if owning a dog would help counterract the feelings of hopelessness I've been enjoying over the last 15 or so years. Dog owners seem to have their emotional ducks in a row slightly better than we non-owners. I imagine all that unmitigated, unyeilding canine affection must help keep you pointed in the right direction, equilibrium-wise. But owning any dog bigger than a breadbox whilst living in NYC is bordering on cruel, no matter how attentive you are. And dogs smaller than breadboxes? They suck shit. Buy a rat, why don't you? I simply can't fathom getting home twice a day to walk the little bastard--that would seriously cut into my drinking/sobbing time.

My aunt breeds dogs--Schnauzers, voted God's Ugliest in a recent poll. I've always found the concept of 'Dog Breeding' kind of odd. Despite the arisocratic reputation, the whole idea is downright creepy. When you get down to brass tacks, dog breeders are just WAY too concerned with trying to make animals have sex with each other. I mean, what IS dog breeding but trying to get convince Dog A to screw Dog B? You're really nothing more than a glorified pimp. I celebrate Thanksgiving at this particular aunt's house, and it's always 'fun' to get updates on which dogs going to get laid. "Well, Cassie is in heat, so she's been flirting with Siegfried all week" she'll mention, with a saucy raise of the eyebrows. "I think tonight could be the night." Wink, wink. I generally respond with "Yeah, those dogs are totally gonna fuck."

And then we make out. Hey, don't judge. You should see what we do on Easter.

But I've noticed over the years that Siegfried is definitely 'the Mack' of that little kennel. There are 15 to 20 schnauzers running around that house at any given time, but it always seems to be Siegfried punching his little ticket. That dog must have some serious Game.

It's sad to know that these social distinctions exist even in the animal world. For example: my old roommate's bassett hound, Woodrow? A total nerd. Seriously, this dog was a major-league dink. He never wanted to mock-wrestle, chase other dogs, or anything of the other things that would make a dog...well, 'cool'. All he did was wander around the neighborhood, smelling things, which I have come to believe is the doggy equivalent of doing homework. Whenever the other dogs would try and play with him at the dog run, he'd yelp derisively and lumber away. This one tme, I watched two beagles and a golden retriever make Woodrow lick his own balls while the rest of the owners pointed and giggled. Then they stole his flea and tick collar. It was pathetic.

So we shot him. It was the humane thing to do, really.

Being a star of my magnitude can be tiresome--sometimes I just want to get out and meet some of you "real" people, unencumbered by my various bodyguards, stylists, ouija consultants, etc. So if you happen to see me walking the streets of New York (Bloomie's bags in hands, 'natch), please follow these simple guidelines to ensure a mutually satisfying chit-chat:

DO: Offer to shake my hand (I may or may not comply)
DON'T: Offer a high-five. I am incapable of a delivering a sincere high-five, so don't even try it. We'll both walk away from the experience feeling awkward and ashamed, much like when you lost your virginity.

DO: Tell me I look good (even if I don't)
DON'T: Compliment my "outfit". I hate that word.

DO: Offer me a cigarette (I don't smoke, but that's no reason to be fucking rude.)
DON'T: Offer me a pull off your hooch. That's just nasty, dude. Get your ass to a meeting.

DO: Hug me.
DON'T: Hug me in a way that our pelvises make contact (unless you are a hot chick, in which case pelvis action is a definite "DO").

DO: Act aloof, in order to conceal your admiration and undying love.
DON'T: Punch me in the face. I cannot stress this one enough, people. I don't know what you're trying to accomplish with this whole punching thing. That's not going to bring us closer. Do you think it makes you look cool? Do you? Well, it doesn't! It makes me feel like maybe you don't deserve what I have to offer. I'll cut you off, people--don't think I won't! So, please: enough with the face-punching.

I hope this has been helpful.


Yes, I have writer's block. So f-ing what?

Hey, it's April 3rd--isn't it about time you called your friend and apologized for that wacky "Hey, I went to Third Base with your wife" April Fools gag?

Unless you actually did, of course. If that's the case, give it until Friday.

Today, April Fool's Day, is my 29th birthday. Having an Apirl Fools birthday can be a bit tedious, as people often try to put a "funny" spin on the traditional "happy birthday". Be warned: if you decide to punctuate your well-wishings with some comment about me being a "fool" (or something equally lame), I will immediately drop my pants and defecate on your shoe. I will then punch you in the throat and shout "APRIL FOOLS!"

I'm feeling a bit ornery about this whole "getting older" thing, if you can't tell.

So how will I spend this most exciting of days? Doing laundry and trying to stave off mortality, of course. I actually had my party a couple nights ago. And by "party" I mean only that my whiskey was purchased for me by various friends, as opposed to having paid for it myself. Ah, my life is a 3rd tier Bukowski story! But I did get a couple of interesting presents, most notably a collection of short stories entitled "Best American Erotica 1999". Despite my general distinterest in highbrow smut ("erotica" is for chicks; dudes prefer "porn"), this little tome became noteworthy by the end of the evening. A hot chick friend of mine got it autographed by Woody Harrelson, who happened to be hanging out at the same bar (stoned out of his gourd, I might add). So I now have a volume of celebrity-approved ribaldry. Jealous much? Michael Stipe was also in attendance, looking arty and detached, but he didn't seem interested in furhter annointing my book of dirty little stories. Snob.

Ok, you--back to work! File something!

Hey, it worked! Now you know about The Hass than you ever thought possible. There is joy in Mudville!

Ok, it's time for me to enter the brave new world of hypertext. Ready to have your life changed? Well, buckle your seatbelt and click away!