mood music

It’s no secret that I’m a big old school Madonna fan.

Not the new stuff, just the stuff that was awesome and maybe makes me want to dance like a drunk kid at his senior prom when he finds out his date isn’t wearing any underwear.

Today I was listening to one of my favorites, “Open Your Heart,” when I realized something: the song is basically a stalkers anthem.

If I was a stalker, which I’m not (but please stop wearing those pants every Tuesday, I don’t like them), I would definitely listen to this song while I was lusting/considering murdering the subject of my Unacceptable Attention.

Just look at the lyrics.

I see you on the street and you walk on by
You make me wanna hang my head down and cry
If you gave me half the chance you’d see
My desire burning inside of me

If anyone ever tells you they have a “desire burning inside of them,” it is Not A Good Thing. If that problem can’t be solved with Tums and a Good Nights Rest, then it’s time to consider police protection.

I follow you around but you can’t see
You’re too wrapped up in yourself to notice
So you choose to look the other way
Well, I’ve got something to say

Right.

If someone doesn’t notice another person following them around, it’s usually because that person is hiding. And if they’re hiding that means they’re probably up to no good. Or maybe they’re ugly.

Either way it’s not someone you want anything to do with.

Don’t try to run I can keep up with you
Nothing can stop me from tryin’

Now it’s on.

The person is putting it all out there. If you’re being stalked by a marathon runner, I guess you’re pretty much fucked. Pun intended.

Open your heart to me, baby
I’ll hold the lock and you hold the key
Open your heart to me, darlin’
I’ll give you love if you, you turn the key

I don’t know about you, but “open your heart” sounds pretty gruesome to me.

I’m sure all the stalkers are thinking, “Look, it’s no big deal! I’m just gonna bash your skull in with this brick and then pull your heart out of your chest. Toughen up for god’s sake!”

But I’d rather keep my heart in chest.

Madonna has really blessed every stalker out there with something special to listen to.

A little song, a little dance and a lot of creepy staring.

It’s beautiful.

watch your step

I haven’t fallen down in seven years.

I’m serious.

Think about that for a minute. It’s quite the feat don’t you think?

I haven’t fallen on the ground once since I was 22 years old.

I know this because I remember the last time I fell down vividly. It was winter and as I was walking to work I slipped on some ice and hit the ground with a thud.

It made my butt wet.

Wet butts are not fun.

Falling down is a traumatic event for people, it really does affect us more than we realize.

I bet if you thought about it right now, you can pinpoint the exact moment the last time you fell down.

And that’s because when we were kids, falling down was cute and basically something that we were supposed to do. “Oh look at little Johnnie, he fell again! Hahaha! Back to your cage now, you silly guy.”

But now when we fall, it is quite the predicament.

How are we supposed to act?

We can act like it never happened, but you know this is a mistake. People who say, “Yeah man, I totally busted my ass and then just played it off like nothing happened and no one even noticed!” are lying.

Everyone noticed.

Everyone saw you clip the table that you somehow did not see even though it was directly in front of you and everyone saw you tumble in slow motion down to the floor, grasping thin air for something – anything – to keep you from your impending doom.

Or maybe you go the laugh it off route?

While this seems the best way, it has its negatives too. Because even though you are admitting that you fell, you are still sitting there in a crumbled mess, one pant leg up to your knee and a foot tucked under your ass. This is not the best look for most people.

Falling down is not good for anybody, and there really aren’t any solutions.

You can hope that you wake up tomorrow and you’re a spider, because I’m pretty sure spiders don’t fall down, but that doesn’t seem likely to happen, does it?

Your best bet is to just keep your eyes open, watch out for Dangerous Situations, and maybe keep a dry pair of underwear in your desk.

a happening of great concernment

People like to talk about phenomenons.

They are in awe of the Aurora Borealis, they wonder about the Bermuda Triangle and some question the existence of the Loch Ness Monster.

Though I can assure you that Nessy exists because she’s sick of being called Nessy when in fact her name is Martha.  She also knits.  But she’s terrible at it.

While I can see the draw of these unique occurrences, none of them comes close to what has happened to me today on my way to work.

I have a rock in my shoe.

Of course it’s not a big rock because it never is, is it?

It’s always a little pebble that disappears for awhile, so I think “Oh, it must’ve been nothing, I can go on with my life without this annoyance.”  But then, just when I think everything is Back To Normal, it reannounces its presence, which causes me pain and makes me think, “How the hell does this even happen???”  Sort of like when Ashton Kutcher stars in another movie.

I really don’t understand this phenomenon at all.

Last I checked, I was not rolling around in a pile of gravel, so it couldn’t have happened there.

And I keep my shoes laced tightly because one never knows when one needs to Hurry or maybe outrun a crazy person.

So I have no idea how I can get a rock in my shoe and it bothers the hell out of me.

Forget the Bermuda Triangle, we need to get to the bottom of this Unexplained Event.

Because if I get just one more rock in my shoe, I’m telling Martha to sew all of you mittens for your birthdays, and trust me, no one likes mittens that don’t fit.

No one.

idle hands are the devil’s tools

Yesterday, because I am A Patriot, I celebrated Memorial Day by drinking too many beers and eating semi-edible tofu dogs.

Ari and I went to J.P.’s place in the Bronx, which is basically as far away from our apartment in Brooklyn as it gets, but I’ve known him for 16 years now and he told me he was having a BBQ and that he even mowed his lawn, so we were going.

Once we got there we lit the new grill that J.P. had bought.

Totally awesome.

We looked at this for at least fifteen minutes.

Here is Ari looking cooler than fire.

Try and look cooler than fire, I dare you.

Not many people can pull it off.

When the fire died down J.P. manned the grill because that is what Men do – they Cook Things With Fire.

Not shown is our friend Jim yelling, “My hand is on fire!” and J.P. telling him to “Bun it! You’ve got to Bun it you fool!!!”

Jim did not Bun It and he paid the price. Bronx BBQs are not for the lighthearted.

I bet you’re asking yourself, “Well where were you while all of this was happening?” If you’re not, please do so now.

Thanks.

I, once we got to J.P.’s, found a nice chair and proceeded to sit in it for about three hours and forty-five minutes of the four hours we were there.

I did manage to say Helpful Things like, “Dude grab me another beer!” “You should close the lid now, let the burgers cook” and “Time for another ice cream sandwich!”

I think the chair next to me was empty as a signal that maybe people weren’t too happy with me, but I’m probably reading too much into it.

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to dude or not to dude

Transsexuals have got to have it rough.

There are all the issues with people hating on them for being, well, let’s face it, for Not Being Happy With Things At The Moment.

Which is just stupid.

Imagine if every time you weren’t happy with things at the moment someone yelled at you and said things like “You’re a freak!” I don’t know about you, but my boss would look pretty damn scary doing that.

But beyond all of that, there’d be more much pressing matters to deal with.

Like clothes.

When I get ready to go out, I have to pick something out to wear. Since I’m a dude, I take a couple minutes and decided on Something Great pretty quickly.

But transsexuals have two sets of clothes to choose from!

So not only do they first have to decide if they want to be Bob or, uh, Bobette for the night, they then have to pick between a flannel shirt (I’m pretty sure all Bobs wear flannel shirts) and a skort.

And what about the hair?

Up or down?

Some dudes, like country singers and Fabio, rock long hair like it’s okay to do that – so do they leave it down or do they put it up?

Then there’s the walk.

I’m sure sometimes, when they decide on being Bob and they’re walking along Very Man Like, they forget The Decision for a second and a little too much Bobette slips out and that has got to be frustrating!

Clearly I could never be a transsexual because 1) you’re kind of born that way and 2) I have a hard enough time just trying to be a Normal Man.

Plus, if you ask me to choose between a flannel shirt and a skort I might be scared to find out what I would actually pick.

good housekeeping

As I stepped off the train this morning on my way to the gym, I was lost in thoughts about how Lauren Conrad is exactly why The Hills works, she’s perfect enough to make women want to be her and flawed enough for women to hate her, thus evoking the two strongest emotions there are – jealousy and anger – from viewers.

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I noticed that a homeless guy had set up shop on the platform across the tracks from me.

He was covered in blankets and a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff, pretty much rocking the Standard Homeless Dude Uniform.

He also had a cart full of stuff next to him, and in this cart was a dust buster.

That’s right.

A homeless dude, someone whose life was ever-changing and could only hold onto a few select items from day to day, decided that the dust buster was making the cut.

Not soap.

Not shampoo.

A dust buster.

Obviously, I was quite impressed by this.

The man probably has shit in his underwear every single day of his life, but when he goes to settle down on whatever grate or staircase he chooses for the night, he makes sure he tidies up the space first.

A little dust bust here, a little dust bust there and he’s ready for the night.

I bet he’s quite the whiz with that little Tool Of Dirt Destruction, zooming it around with the greatest of ease, the envy of all of his friends!

Or maybe he just uses it to beat people who try and steal his socks.

That’s a tough one to call.

heaven on earth

Eventually, when I’m forced to flee New York because I’ve become such a famous blogger that the paparazzi starts taking pictures of me in my underwear and That’s Not Acceptable, I am going to buy a house.

This house will be great and awesome and probably make my neighbors jealous, but I also realize that this house will be Ari’s Domain.

That is how life works.

She will want frilly things like nice coasters and matching towels and probably a welcome mat that has something witty written on it like “Please Wipe Paws Here.”

And that’s fine with me.

Because as I’ve already told her in many Serious Discussions – she can do whatever she wants with the entire house as long as I get the basement.

The basement will be The Man Room.

It will have Man Things in it only.

There will be a giant TV for sports and video games.

There will be art hung from the walls – like this.

Because Bo Knows Man Rooms. That doesn’t sound good, but you get the idea.

And there will be this.

Because that was the coolest part of the movie, you know, when they try and Find Themselves before going and kicking ass.

And there will definitely be this.

Because – well, Robocop is the fucking man. Or robot. Or cyborg. Whatever he wants to be – he’s the fucking man.

I imagine there where will also be this.

Because Johnny didn’t stand a fucking chance.

Aside from this wealth of Amazing Posters, my Man Room will have a Kegerator, and a pool and air hockey table.

Women will only be allowed down if they give The Secret Knock, which will never be given out to my friends girlfriends, wives and mistresses, because they can only cause Trouble.

Yes the Man Room will be a place where me and my friends can escape and talk about the Important Issues Facing Men.

Like how many beers you can drink before you pass out and why No Holds Barred never gets the kind of love it deserves.

It is going to be awesome.

inside voices

I try to be nice.

I know, that might seem like Crazy Drunk Talk coming from me, and maybe it is because part of me still feels hungover from last night and wants to maybe vomit on my desk, but it’s the truth.

I really do try – with the emphasis on “try.”

But what I don’t understand, and what makes me not be so nice sometimes, is when people who speak a foreign language feel that they can talk at obscenely loud levels.

Why do they think this okay???

And this is not about being tolerant of other people.

This is about me having to cover my fucking ears to keep them from bleeding when I’m standing next to an Asian couple.

This is about me wanting to strangle a group of Hispanic girls on the train because I feel like if I go to jail afterwards at least I’ll be in a quiet cell.  Well, at least until my cell mate tries to make me His Woman.

I don’t care if people are not White/American/Whatever The Fuck!  I mean, good for them, I’m a white American male, it doesn’t get any more lame and uninteresting than that.

I just want them to keep their fucking voices down!

Just because no one around understands what they’re saying doesn’t mean they can scream when they’re standing two feet away from each other.

And this goes for American high school girls too, because I have no clue what they’re saying even though they’re apparently speaking in English.  All I hear is “like” every fucking third word and it makes me want to throw myself down a flight of stairs.

I can’t fucking take it.

But this is why I have this blog.

So I can tell all of you about how much I hate stuff and how I try and be nice but usually end up being The Asshole Who Said The Wrong Thing.

And hopefully no one is offended by this post, but if you are and you want to talk about it, I only ask that you keep your fucking voice down because I’m right here and I really don’t care what you think anyway.

to the moon

There’s a guy who lives behind my brownstone that Does Things in the small yard that is attached to his building.

I say “things” because although there is always a flurry of sounds emanating from the yard, I have yet to actually see something different or anything actively being done.

I always know he’s out there when the music begins.

He prefers to keep it mostly oldies – but I have found on days when I assume things are going especially good for him – that he likes to sprinkle in some salsa.

The result of the constant music is that I have found myself, at the most random of times, getting an intense urge to bust out a verse of “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” without really understanding why.

Immediately after the music begins, the sounds of tools fills the air.

Drills, hammers, saws – you name it and the guy is using it every single Saturday and Sunday afternoon.

Since I can’t see into his yard because of the way our buildings are positioned, I like to imagine that he’s back there doing Something Important.

Like building a spaceship.

You know, something so awesome that he needs to have Smokey Robinson’s smooth voice speaking to him as he uses every single tool known to man to build it.

I bet you’re thinking that building a spaceship doesn’t require those things at all, that spaceships are built by scientists and engineers and other Smart Sounding Things.

Well you’d be wrong.

And your spaceship would suck.

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one hebrew two hebrew red hebrew blue hebrew

I don’t understand people who take the Bible literally.

There is no way all that stuff happened exactly as it is portrayed in there – no way.

Like Moses leading the Hebrews out of slavery.

The Bible says that Moses, being the smart man that he was, listened to God when he told him, “Dude, go get my boys out of slavery and I’ll help you out.”

I don’t fault Moses for this, if God told you to do something back then, you did it.  Not like now when it’s much easier to ignore him when he hasn’t unleashed his wrath in about a million years.  Although the Beanie Baby craze was definitely God telling us that we sucked.

So Moses goes and takes the Hebrews out of Egypt and the Bible then says that they wandered the desert for 40 years.

40 fucking years.

Wandering in a desert.

You’re telling me that not one person approached Moses after day six and wondered what the hell was going on?

Hebrew With A Nice Beard: [Slowly approaches Moses, who is standing by himself after dinner because of course no one likes him] “Hey man, uh, what’s the plan here?  I mean, I appreciate that you got me out of slavery and all that, but I’m kinda getting bored.”

Moses: [Sighing] “Look, I keep telling you guys, it’s all good!  Trust me!  God and me go way back – he’d never punk me like this.”

Hebrew With A Nice Beard: “I don’t know man, are you sure?  Cause, you know, it’s kinda hot out here.”

Moses: “I’m telling you, everything is gonna be fine.”

Hebrew With A Nice Beard: [Looking back toward Bob] “Well, I’m sorry bro, but Bob and I, we’re heading back.  He heard about a sweet buy one get one free deal on sandals at the market.  But good luck with all this – it really sounds very nice and fine.”

There is no way that Moses convinced all those people to just wander around the damn desert for 40 years.

The desert is hot and sometimes it has scorpions.  At least that’s what I hear.

And don’t even let me get started on Noah.  Two of every animal?

Yeah right!

You know Noah grabbed his dog, his cat, maybe his kids hamster because hamsters can be pretty cute and got his ass on that ark.

The Bible is nothing but a big book of funny stories.

It’s kind of like Dr. Seuss books – it has lots of rhyming, features things that don’t exist and there’s always a moral to every story.  The only difference is there’s no Grinch.

Although I guess the Grinch could be the devil, so nevermind.

The Bible is exactly like Dr. Seuss books.