Listen, about yesterday...

What can I say? Someone told me you'd all been reading someone else's blog and, well, I just snapped. But I'm going to make it up to you, babies. I'm going to buy you all the things you deserve--the fancy cars, the fur coats, the jewelry, you name it.

But in the meantime, enjoy another installment of...

Celebrity Morning Pages!

(If you're unfamiliar with this running thread, click on the 'Archives' link and check out the entries for 4/10/02 and 7/23/02.)

TODAY'S CONTRIBUTOR: Sarah Jessica Parker, thespian

Perhaps no show on television deals with the issues facing the average New Yorker like HBO�s �Sex and the City�. And no woman has done more to elevate her entire gender than actress and role model Sarah Jessica Parker. But there�s more to Sarah than classic beauty and killer outfits�she�s also happily married to actor Matthew Broderick, with whom she�s expecting her first child. Luckily, she still had time to give us this brief glimpse into her world. Enjoy.


Yesterday a horribly unattractive girl came up to me to ask for an autograph. That wasn�t the bad part, although I DO wish fans would at the very least put on some makeup before approaching me. But here�s the thing�she said that people were always telling her she looked like me! I was so furious. I mean, this girl was horrid! And this is like the fifth time this has happened! Why do unattractive people all think they look like me? Sometimes I worry that all of the low class girls who ask me for my autograph see me as some sort of conduit between them and all of my beautiful and legitimate friends. Not to be a bitch, but that really offends me! I mean, I�m a legitimate Hollywood sex symbol! Yeah, I know my nose is slightly large, but that just gives me character! Access Hollywood said so just last month! If I hear �offbeat good looks� one more time I�m going to pummel someone with my bony, brittle fists! I�m unique, and therefore desirable! How many times is E! going to have to profile me before homely, "normal" women accept that I�m not one of them? Maybe I need to wear more eyeshadow. You can never go wrong with eyeshadow. Or maybe I need to lose some weight. This whole pregnancy thing is wreaking havoc with my figure (by the way, I think Matthew is starting to catch on that it isn�t his�must remember to give Adrian Zmed his boxers back). Anyway, like I was saying, being pregnant is a bummer. Yesterday I weighed myself and I was almost 94 pounds! 94! I feel like such a fatty! I can barely see the veins in forearms! I feel like all those ugly people who sit around in two star restaurants eating red meat! Disgusting! I better get a colonic tomorrow. We�re shooting a scene at Moomba today. Moomba is soooooooo over. Not that I care about things like that�you know, trendy lounges and expensive clothes and all that. That�s just the character I play on the show. After all, I�m a serious actress, trained in the theatre. But if I WAS that kind of person, I wouldn�t be caught DEAD at Moomba! What is this, 1998? Why can�t we shoot the scene at Bungalow 8? It�s not like I couldn�t have called Amy Sacco and made it happen. That reminds me, I have to find a way to Nicky and Paris Hilton on the show. Those girls are so cool and down to earth! Ok, I�m going to go now. I have a busy day today. I have to stop by D&G for this week�s free outfits, swing over to Kenneth Cole for my free shoes and then I have an appointment to get the palms of my hands liposucted. Maybe afterward, I�ll walk around Chelsea and let a few gay men validate me. TTFN!

Look at you. You should all be ashamed yourselves.

No, you don't get a blog entry today. You don't deserve one. Oh, don't play innocent with me, motherfreakers! You know what you did.

You sick bastards.

No, you'll have to go a full day without reading my delightfully whimsical prose. There'll be no wacky comedic 'list' for you today--no "Worst Songs to Publicly Play Air Guitar To"* and no "Things I'd Rather Do To Myself Than Sit Through Goldmember"**.

Sorry, no dice.

And no, it's not because I'm semi-drunk and need to be awake in less than six hours. This has nothing to do with that. It's because you guys fucked up. BIG TIME!

Hope you're happy with yourselves.


________________________


* But if I WAS going to compile this list, it would include "Escapade" by Janet Jackson, "Chains of Love" by Erasure, and "Ave Maria".


________________________


** But if I was going to compile THIS list, it might include stapling my applebag to the inside of my leg.

Rejected titles for Movin' Out, the new Billy Joel musical:

Billy Joel Superstar

Phantom of the Incredibly Bland Opera

Dreck!

Bottle of Red, Bottle of Mediocrity

Captain Jack-Off

Billy Joel and the Amazing Technicolor Shitstain

You May Be Right (I May Be Sucky)

Piano Moron

Crapalot

The Longest Time

I was considering asking a woman on a date last week, but I wanted to make sure that I'm worthy of a loving relationship. Therefore, I compiled a list of all the things I have to offer a woman. I think you can see that I am definitely Boyfriend Material.


1. I am a good listener
2. I have never murdered anyone (intentionally)
3. I am relatively punctual (because seriously, where else would I need to be?)
4. I own a Brita
5. I can show you how to steal food from a deli salad bar
6. I once ran three entire miles, back to back
7. I can name all five members of the band Ratt
8. I'm 75% sure I don't have Herpes
9. On second thought, maybe 65%
10. Well...definitely above 50%, that I promise you


Line up, ladies.

Earlier today, I was chatting with a friend of mine, and she mentioned that she had spent the previous evening writing opening lines for novels she plans to one day write. Not to be outdone, I figure it's high time I start working on my magnum opus. Therefore, I have written ten prospective 'opening lines', which I now present to you, the reading public. Pick your favorite and, assuming there's any interest, I will use it as the opening literary salvo in a brand new short story to be posted on this site for the cultural enrichment of our great nation. Also, feel free to suggest a title, if you feel so inspired.

Now, the opening lines:


1. Time, like a nose during flu season, dripped onward.

2. I�ve said it before, and I�ll say it again: never trust a dildo salesman.

3. If there was one thing Sister Marjorie hated, it was homeless people.

4. From the moment I met Terrence Chu, I knew he would one day make Dungeons & Dragons history.

5. �If that�s not the murder weapon, I�ll molest a child,� declared Inspector Tippington.

6. Corrine was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman at the �Free Mumia Pie-Eating Contest and Texas Chili Bake-Off�.

7. Excusing herself from Lord Percival, Lady Brently retired to her private toilet and dropped a major deuce.

8. Morning found Sheriff Wurley sobbing into his International Male catalogue.

9. �Love is the answer to all questions,� the wise old shaman whispered to his John Stamos poster.

10. I still remember the day I decided to run for mayor of Boner City.

How did I know my last girlfriend had issues? Every time we had sex, she'd want me to yell "Who's your foster daddy!"

(rim shot)

Hey-oooo!

Top 5 Hottest Corporate Mascots:
1. St. Pauli Girl
2. Swiss Miss
3. The Pillsbury Dough Boy
4. Teri Hatcher
5. Mr. Peanut

Top 5 Least Hot Corporate Mascots:
1. Mr. Clean
2. That two sided Shredded Wheat dude
3. Mrs. Buttersworth
4. Pringles moustache guy
5. Sting

WHAT MY FAVORITE ALBUM SAYS ABOUT ME, Part IV


* THE WALLFLOWERS "Bringing Down the Horse" -- In terms of mileage and reliability, there really is nothing like a Volvo.

* LEE GREENWOOD "God Bless the USA" -- Just give me a reason to go all 'hate crime' on your ass.

* PAPA ROACH "Lovehatetragedy" -- Mom, don't drop me off right in front, drive around the corner. Drive around the corner! Mom, don't be a dick!

* TERRENCE TRENT D'ARBY "Neither Fish Nor Flesh" -- I yearn to be ridiculed by black people and white people alike.

* DIXIE CHICKS "Wide Open Spaces" -- I may be a 43 year old high school algebra teacher, but I still enjoy a healthy dose of "sass"!

* YEAH YEAH YEAHS "Yeah Yeah Yeahs" -- I like to think of myself as post-everything.

* BOYZ II MEN "Legacy" -- I'm a sucker for closed eyes and clenched fists.

* THE BREEDERS "Title TK" -- Nothing has changed! I'm still 20! Lines in my face? What lines?! No, that's just because I was out late last night! Balding? Me?! No! Never! Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!

* V/A "Now That's What I Call Music Vol. 10" -- I do what I'm told.

* BOB DYLAN "Blood on the Tracks" -- I'm thinking of picking up Bob Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks".


P.S. If you're unfamiliar with this running thread and would like to read Parts I-III, click on the 'Archives' link to the left of these words and check out the entires for 5/23, 5/26 and 6/4.

A unique investment opportunity!

With so much volatility on Wall Street these days, many financial analysts are advising their clients to invest in the bond market. And they couldn't be more right--there's never been a better time to align yourself with the reassuring profitablity of bonds! And it is to this end that I am taking a cue from one of my heroes, David Bowie, and issuing my intellectual property to the general public. As of Monday, August 5th 2002, you can now buy into the comedic juggernaut that is my career in the form of FinneBonds. The way this works is that you buy a FinneBond and then you collect on all future monies earned by me, at a rate of 8.42%. Now, I really prefer a minimum investment of $6,000 (or to be accurate, MasterCard would prefer a minimum investment of $6,000), but I'm willing to consider anything. Say, for instance, you decide to buy me a beer. In one short year, it'll be as if you bought me 1.0842 beers! In two years, 1.1684 beers! I mean, can you see how great this is? This is an incredible financial opportunity for you! At rates like these, I must be insane!!

Or, if you�re a more cautious investor, you can just buy into an individual joke. And if that joke gets sold to a television show or a lazy politician, you collect! And something should know: my material is guaranteed to mature! That's right! You know that thing I wrote a few days ago about Natalie Merchant taking a dump? Well, that horseshit is guaranteed to mature! In five years, that joke will blossom into brilliant commentary on isolationism in a global economy! Yup, today's dick joke is tomorrow's bon mot!

You can't afford to let this opportunity pass you by, people. FinneBonds! FinneBonds! FinneBonds!!!

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

New Chatroom Shorthand!

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


BFE! (Bleeding From Ears!)

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

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

DIH! (Dick In Hand!)

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

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

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

PSIK! (Punching Self In Kidneys!)

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

"China Grove" by The Doobie Brothers

"The Glory of Love" by Peter Cetera"

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

"I Adore Mi Amor" by Color Me Badd

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

"Lady" by Kenny Rogers

"My Dingaling" by Chuck Berry

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

"Mercedes Boy" by Pebbles

"The Notre Dame Fight Song" (trad.)

"Mambo #5" by Lou Bega

"Light My Fire" by The Doors

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

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

Pachobel's "Canon"

"Joyride" by Roxette

"The Harlem Shuffle" by The Rolling Stones

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

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

_________________________


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

Thank you for your cooperation.

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

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


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



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

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

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

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

Seriously.

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

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

No.

No.

You're wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herewith:



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

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

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

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

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

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





Cheerleader girly
Ever drunk, flirts with Sapphos
Candace equals ass

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

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

Pudgy Jessica
Definite narc tendencies
Fudge-eating buzzkill

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

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

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

Without further ado�



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

AND THE ENVELOPES PLEASE... (hee hee)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Best �Kramer�: Pete Johnson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy your Sunday evening, kiddos.


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

A RANDOM THOUGHT

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

Overrated: Happiness
Underrated: Bemusement

Overrated: Intellectual Rigor
Underrated: Slapfights

Overrated: Tom Hanks
Underrated: Peter Scolari

Overrated: Empowerment
Underrated: Vassalage

Overrated: Dracula
Underrated: Gelflings

Overrated: Honor
Underrated: Pragmatism

Overrated: Hall
Underrated: Oates

Overrated: Masturbation
Underrated: Nervous Energy

Overrated: Children
Underrated: Bastards

Overrated: Diamonds
Underrated: Hospital ID Bracelets

Overrated: Unity
Underrated: Cheese Doodles

Overrated: Life After Death
Underrated: Death

IT'S COME TO THIS: Dirty limiricks


(I apologize for these in advance. Seriously.)



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

__________


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

__________


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

__________


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

__________

(Yep. I know. Sorry.)


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

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

Worst Wedding Songs:


"You Fucked Up" by Ween

"The End" by The Doors

"Full On Kevin's Mom" by Soundgarden

"Tom Sawyer" by Rush

"Just a Gigolo" by Louie Prima

"War" by Edwin Starr

"Angelfuck" by The Misfits

"Darling Nikki" by Prince

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

"Idioteque" by Radiohead

"Run Like Hell" by Pink Floyd

"My Pal Foot Foot" by The Shaggs

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

"Bitch Betta Have My Money" by AMG

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

Turn on your speakers and enjoy this.

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

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

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

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

"Miss Me Blind" by Culture Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

Choose from these future favorites:

"TAKE TWO AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING!"

"HAPPY SOLSTICE, PRESIDENT KENNEDY!"

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

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

"HEY, I CAN'T STOP CONJUGATING!"

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

"TRUTH IN ADVERTISING! TRUTH IN ADVERTISING!"

"WHAT ABOUT VALHALLA?!"

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

"LET'S GO METS!"

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

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

10:10am: Peel self from sheets

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

10:15am: Grumble angrily

10:20am: Shower

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

11:10am Check email

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

12:10pm: Dry off

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

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

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

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

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

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

1:50pm: Consider suicide

1:54pm: Consider homocide

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

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

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

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

4:20pm: Wander listlessly to movie theatre

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

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

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

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

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

11:57pm: Get back into shower

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

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

Small Victories:


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

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

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

* Getting a boner at work.

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

* Seeing a close friend succeed.

* Seeing a casual acquaintance fail.

* Drawing nipples on a subway movie poster.

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

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

* Bringing peace to the Middle East

* Punching a child.

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

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

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

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

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

Personally, I'll take songs about dragons.

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.)

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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.