chic

I like to consider myself a stylish dude when it comes to clothes, but every time I start to get a big ego about the way I dress, Ari always likes to remind me of these:

 

Those are the S. Carter Tennis Lows.  I once owned a pair of these shoes.

And wore them.

In public.

I’m not even joking with you.  I actually went to a store and purchased those shoes for $110.

I remember going into a Foot Locker, picking them out, and thinking, “Oh, these are those new Jay-Z shoes - I should get these!”

Then I showed them to this girl I was with at the time, and she said, “Oh. Those? Yes, those are nice.”  In retrospect I should have been a little more perceptive and realized that what she was really saying was, “Oh, those might be the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen.  They’ll make people laugh at you.  A lot.”

But you have to understand something about me:  I did not always care about fashion or style, so the S. Carters were a huge step for me.

I looked like this only a couple years before then, for god’s sake:

I was this pseudo hippie with gross dreads who wore patchwork pants and tie-dye Grateful Dead t-shirts all the time.

My idea of Looking Nice was wearing an old button up shirt I bought from Goodwill that may or may not have been worn by a 70’s porn star.  And it was poop brown.

So really, when you think about it, the S. Carters were not that bad compared to what I was wearing just a few years prior to buying them.

In fact, maybe during lunch today I’ll go out and buy a pair and impress Ari with my fashion sense all over again.

Only this time I think I’ll get them in blue.

They’ll go with more of my outfits.

get ready to rumble

Everyone seems to be pretty pleased with this new movie, Wall-E.

I’m not.

I’m furious.

Here’s why: Those fuckers at Disney ripped off the second best robot movie (behind Robocop of course) of all time, Short Circuit.

Wall-E is an exact copy of Short Circuit’s star, Johnny 5.

Of course I have compiled Scientific Evidence to prove my point.

Here is Wall-E.

Awww, he’s so cute.

Look at him playing with that Rubik’s Cube, it only makes me want to vomit in my mouth once.

Now here’s Johnny “Motherfucking” 5.  I added the motherfucking for effect.  It’s my Artistic License.

Uh, notice any similarities?

Wall-E has the exact same head, the exact same wheels, and almost identical hands.

You’re pissed off right now, aren’t you?  I know!

This is bullshit!

How can Disney so blatantly disrespect 1) A bad-ass robot and 2) Steve Guttenberg???

Steve was in Three Men and a Baby (with Tom Selleck!!!) and Police Academy - two additional classic movies! Has the world gone mad???

Are pigs flying?

Did McDonald’s stop making commercials that are just fucking terrible and finally realize that the best ones they ever had starred the Hamburgerlar?

It’s times like these when I really, really start to question if The End Of Days is upon us.

When I can’t live my life in peace, knowing that gems from my childhood will remain intact and Unfuckedwith, I just don’t feel safe anymore.

I’ll tell you what, this Injustice, this Abomination, WILL NOT STAND.  I’m calling Johhny 5 and I’m calling Steve and we’re going on a roadtrip to kick Wall-E’s ass.

You think I get worked up over Things That Don’t Matter?

Just wait until you see Steve Guttenberg get gully - it’s not for the faint of heart.

poppa please, some more of these

I was reading The Times just now, when I stumbled across an article about how a bunch of doctors have decided that kids should be put on cholesterol-lowering drugs to decrease their chances of having heart problems when they become adults.

Obviously I am in Full Support of this idea.

Kids are A Pain aren’t they?

Well, just drug those little fuckers up!

When little Johnny just can’t seem to sit still, pop an Adderall in his bowl of Kix and you can sit back, relax and not be bothered when The Bold & The Beautiful comes on.  Oh, and just to save you the trouble, there is no way Katie will be able to hold her feelings back, now that Bridget has accepted Nick’s proposal.  No way!

Is cute Sally putting on one too many pounds and suddenly Not So Cute?

Don’t bother getting her involved in physical activities like sports where she could not only form friendships with other kids but foster healthy exercising behaviors, get that bitch some drugs!

With a pill there’d be no having to drive Sally to practices, no having to Support Her in a new endeavor, nothing!

Simply tell your caring pediatrician - who is not controlled by bonuses given to him by pharmaceutical companies - about Sally’s Problem, and you’ll be annoyance free by the end of that day.

This is why I can’t wait to have a little tyke of my own.

With all the pills that can be given to kids to drown out any issues they may have, just the thought of watching the little zombies wander aimlessly around my house brings a big smile to my face.

But if I start to smile too much, I’ll be sure to see my doctor about it.

I hear there’s a pill for that.

(Everyone: I am having my first ever contest - so please go check out the Win Something! page for all the details)

a-okay

I had to buy deodorant yesterday.

Deodorant is in the Personal Items category, and the Rules Of Life say you must buy something else when purchasing a product from said category.

If you walk up to a cashier and slam down just a stick of deodorant, you might as well just go ahead and grab them by the shoulders, pull them over to your armpit and say, “Smell me, go ahead, do it!  I stink.  Please, this is all I need to be normal again - please help me!”

It would not be pretty scene and the cops may also be called.

So when I went into the Duane Reade I knew I had to buy some other item to make it look like I was not on the verge of making people vomit with my body odor.

I perused the aisles searching for The Perfect Thing that would not make the cashier judge me.

Cards?

No.

No one is playing cards with a dude who stinks.  The cashier would never believe that I have friends.

Shampoo?

No.

I did not want the cashier thinking that not only did my armpits smell, my hair was also Not Quite Right.

I finally decided on a Kashi energy bar after much debate and brought it up to a cashier that was giving me a face like she loved her job.  Or maybe she was just hating her life and wanted me to know it.

It was when I sat my items down on the counter that I noticed that the label on the Kashi bar proudly proclaimed, “Now With 3X The Fiber!” in big bold type.

Perfect.

I was now a smelly man and approximately 85 years-old and/or had a severe problem with my plumbing.

I couldn’t say anything in my defense.  I just paid and left as quickly as I could.

I think I’ll stay away from that Duane Reade for at least a week or two, just because I don’t want to have to face that cashier again.

I’d go up to pay, she’d look at me then ask, “So how are we feeling today?”

And I’d have to lie and say, “I feel fine.  I feel perfectly normal.”

 

(I’m not gonna be around tomorrow, because I’ll be eating semi-charred foods and drinking too much alcohol, so if you’re looking for something to read, please take the time to check out the posts that I linked to on the Okay Playa! page.) 

doing it and doing it well

Yesterday I went and got my hair cut at the place around the corner from my office that I always go to.

This is it:

I took this picture after I got off work.  Pretty nice looking place, right?

Obviously the best part about the outside of Roman’s is the sign, which has this dude on it.

I like to think that is Roman - the Founding Father of Roman’s Barber Shop Hairstylist, Inc.

I’m not sure though, because no one that works there looks like that.

There are two dudes who cut hair at Roman’s, one older foreign man and one younger foreign man.  I say “foreign” because I have no idea what nationality they are, but they both clearly have an accent of some kind.

I don’t even know their names.  I just refer to them in my head as Old Dude and Young Dude.

Young Dude is by far my favorite.  Every time I get my hair cut by him, he snaps his fingers a lot.  When he throws the shower curtain-like thing over me to keep the hair off - snap!  When he reaches for the clippers - snap, snap!

It’s pretty awesome.

Then, when a song comes on that he likes, he signs along to it a little bit - but not too much.  Just enough for me to appreciate that he appreciates it.  Yesterday it was Love In This Club by Usher.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.

And when Young Dude is done, he always, no matter what day it is, says, “And now you are ready for the weekend!”

It is, without a doubt, the best way to end getting your hair cut.

Yes, it was Tuesday, but I was ready for the weekend!

Already!

Because of him!

And my hair cut!

Of course I always tip them both well.  They only charge ten dollars, so I always tip five, because c’mon - that great of an experience is worth it.  And what’s $15 anyway?

Because of my generous tipping and the ease of my haircut (you’ve seen me, I don’t have much to cut) the guys at Roman’s love me.

Every time I come in they both greet me and every time I leave we all say a heartfelt goodbye.

So next time you’re visiting New York and you’re done doing all the touristy things and whatever else, why don’t you pay a visit to ol’ Roman’s for a haircut experience Like No Other.

And just because you read my blog, first one’s on me.

 

(I also have a post up at the Back Fence PDX blog, which is more of a story than a blog post, so it’s slightly longer than my usual stuff.  Please check it out if you have some time, I think you’ll like it.  If you don’t just remember it was my first time writing a “story-like” post in a loooonnng time so be nice.  Or don’t be nice. Either way, please read it and just lie to me if you think it sucks.  And be sure to check back at that blog regularly for all the other great stories posted there.)

the day the music died

Bon Jovi.

The name invokes many thoughts, feelings and even memories, doesn’t it?

Right now you’re probably thinking of that time when you heard “Livin’ on a Prayer” and you thought to yourself that you could identify with Tommy who used to work on the docks and was down on his luck because you, too, thought life “is tough, so tough.”

Or maybe you’re thinking of how great you felt when you belted out “You Give Love a Bad Name” while downing cans of Busch Light at the local bar and the woman with blonde highlights and cut-off jean shorts thought you “rocked” and went home with you even after you vomited on her leg.

But not me.

I don’t have fond thoughts.

I hate Bon Jovi and I want them to go away.

The only thing that gives me an once of respect for them is that they produced a pretty decent song for Young Guns 2, which was a bad ass movie.

Other than that, I could be perfectly happy with my life if I never had to hear “Livin’ on a Prayer” or any other song by them again.

For awhile, I thought that I was in the clear.

There were some years when the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and no one had heard from Jon (Your name is really spelled John, by the way, you fucking ass - what, taking the “h” out of your name made you that much more rocking?) and the gang for quite some time.

Then they came storming back with the single “It’s My Life,” which makes me want to stab my ears with a spoon because it is so damn cheesy.

And just like that - no more sun shining and no more birds chirping.

Just the sound of terrible pop music sung by a man who sports a woman’s haircut while jamming to guitar riffs played by quite possibly the ugliest man alive.  Okay, it’s a toss-up between him and Tom Petty.

My hate for Bon Jovi has been reignited because it has just been announced that the band will be playing here at Central Park on the 12th.

Guess who’s going to that show?

Me.

I’m going to show up early so I can get a front row seat, and when that bastard comes on stage, I’m going to tell him how I feel and maybe throw my dirty socks at his head.

I’ve had enough Bon Jovi.

The shitty music must stop.

Get ready for hell.

esp and me

If I had my way I’d hang out with Miss Cleo at least once a month.

We’d be good friends, the kind that get together and talk and talk.

She’d come and visit and she’d read my fortune and maybe tell me about why Christian Bale won’t reply to my emails.  I mean, all I ask is that he sends me one damn email for all the hundreds I’ve sent saying how awesome he is.  He can forget about me sending more chocolates to his house until he does, that’s for sure.

Big C (we’d be tight, so I could totally call her that) and I would talk trash about other psychics and drink whiskey and then I’d get her to do my favorite line from one of her ads, where a man has called in asking if his wife’s baby is really his or some other dudes, and she cuts him off mid-sentence by proclaiming, “That is not your baby!”

Fucking awesome.

After that I’d get her to give me the scoop on everything I’ve ever wondered about, like why my feet are always so hot and whether NASA is really Doing Things In Space or just wasting a bunch of money on cool looking toys like I suspect.

Then I’d get her to guess what number I was thinking about for at least an hour and a half because how fun would that be?

And when it was time for her to leave, I’d walk her to the train, and we’d exchange pleasantries along the way.

I wouldn’t have to say much because she’d already be answering my questions before I asked them:

“5:45.”

“No, but sometimes I forget to wash behind my knees.”

“More green.”

“Because they thought spelling it ‘Cap’n’ instead of ‘Captain’ is more fun.”

It’d be a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Just Big C and I, kicking it like only we can.

Her using her mystical abilities to shine light on the World’s Mysteries and me silently stewing over the newly discovered notion that somehow Christian Bale does not like my blog.

 

(Okay everybody - new links are up on the Okay Playa! page, so please go check them out and show those bloggers some love - they all deserve it.  Also, thanks again to Crissy for guest posting on Friday and providing a picture that both disturbed me and made me want to make out with myself.)

scan this

Hey Chris’s Internets!

I’m Crissy, from Crissy’s Page.

Don’t let the name fool you.

I’m a very big deal.

I was going to write about how I can never find a pair of underwear that fits nicely, but that’s too girly of a subject because things can be sort of testosterone-y around these parts.

Speaking of testosterone, it smells like stale L’Homme with an undertone of balls over here, doesn’t it?

It’s distracting.

And what’s this huge black dildo doing here?  It can’t be Ari’s.  This thing would impale the poor girl.

Huh.

I can’t say I’m surprised.  I had my suspicions, what with his love for Madonna and his taste for expensive suits and his fussiness about how his t-shirts fit and his intense fear of moths and everything.

Right?

RIGHT???

Anyhooter, Chris likes to rant a lot and stuff, so that’s what I’m going to do too so you don’t miss him too much.

Here.  Pretend I’m him.

So I’m at the grocery store and I’ve got one of those self-scanner things where you scan your store card and you win a chance to carry a gun and do all the work yourself with your very own scanner and bag your very own groceries as you go.

This is supposed to make shopping Fast and Easy.

And it would be if the fucking things worked right.  Maybe it’s because my daughter is always hurling them out of the carriage.

I have no idea.

So I was having a particularly tough shopping trip with my three-year-old and just about everything meant to be convenient and easy was broken and fucky particularly the self-weigh produce scales and so I wound up weighing a lemon but taking a cantaloupe but so. what. It’s their fault for having shitty scales. And then the scanner gun thingy tells me its battery is dying and that I had to go get a new one so I did, but that meant I had to unpack all of my stuff and rescan everything.

I may or may not have gotten it all.

What?

I was pissed.

Don’t. Judge.

And my kid was all “let me out! I want to talk! LET. ME. OUT. OF. HERE!!!”

Whatthefuck.

So I finished my painful, painful, shopping with little miss screams a lot and I go to the self check out and I scan the thing and the card and the other thing and find my coupons which were buried in the bottom of one of my repacked bags and I scanned the first one and the fucking machine freezes.

Nothing.

Crickets.

So I press the help button and the light on the top of the self check out is blinking, blinking, blinking, helplessly away and clerks and cashiers are walking by and chewing their gum and picking their asses and I’m still standing there and the thing is still blinking and I’m wrestling a 27-pound octopus who is trying to score herself a bag of M&Ms and also trying to commit suicide by jumping out of the cart and

NOBODY IS COMING TO HELP ME.

So finally I have to shout and I don’t like to shout because I’m the Queen of Fucking Everything and The Queen should never have to shout.

But I did.  I shouted.

“EXCUSE ME! I’VE BEEN STANDING HERE FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES NOW AND EVERYONE IS IGNORING ME.”

And finally some teenage girl schlubs over with her attitude and her blue hair extensions and her keys and gives the machine a hand job and then left me to complete my purchase without so much as an apology or a free bag of Cheetos.

The rest of the transaction went pretty okay but I was still irritated to shit and so I signed the credit card signature pad “Fuck You.”

Childish and immature?

Absolutely.

But it was satisfying Internet.

It felt good.

dance your way to love

I think we can all agree that Cheryl Lynn’s song, “Got To Be Real,” is a classic - one of the top ten songs of all time.

Most of the time when it comes on my iPod in the gym, I just want to shake my money maker, but this morning when its catchy, bouncing beat popped through my headphones, I started thinking about the song, and what it meant on a larger scale.

What you find-ah
What you feel now
What you know-ah
To be real!

At first glance, this appears pretty straightforward - Cheryl is talking to us about true love, and how you just “know” when it’s the real thing.

But I think that this is actually Cheryl pleading to us for help.

She has no idea what real love is, and she needs us to help her figure it out while dancing so feverishly that others suspect we are in need of medical attention.  Which we might be.  The diagnosis is clearly Oh I Am Dancing Until Someone Slightly Attractive Goes Home With Me-itis.

She’s asking us - what have you found to be real?  What has felt real?  And finally, what do you know to be real?

Then she gets even more depressing.

Ooh, your love’s for real now
You know that your love is my love
My love is your love
Our love is here to stay

Here she’s saying that because she has no idea what real love is - she’s going to live vicariously through the love we experience with others.  And she’s making sure we know it too by telling us that we “know” it and it “is here to stay.”

Sad.

In fact - here:

That’s how that makes me feel.

Poor Cheryl just wanted our help, and all we can do is dance, dance.  Like that problem Don Henley had.

Next time you listen to this song, I beg you, for just one second - stop moving your booty like only you can and think about poor Cheryl.

She just wants to know true love, and I think we owe it to her to pay some respect.

(Just a quick note:  I’m going to be entertaining some friends starting today, so tomorrow I will be away.  But have no fear!  I have a guest post (the first ever here!) all lined up and it is really fucking funny and you will love it and their blog - so please check tomorrow for the post and show the writer some love.  Oh the suspense!!!)

forcing the issue

I’m making the switch from boxers to boxer briefs (I realize that I should have done this years ago, but I am a Slow Learner) and yesterday I went to go buy some more.

I selected some that I thought would make me look Sexy As Hell and went to stand on line to pay for them.

While standing there and thinking that the models on my chosen boxes must be the most boring dudes on Earth, because in order to look like that they must never drink and maybe say things like, “No thanks, ice cream is just not part of my diet,” I noticed that some of the boxer briefs did not have an opening in the front of them.

I was shocked.

Why would anyone make boxer briefs without the hole in the front?  They essentially made a new product less desirable - kind of like how Super Mario Bros. 2 was far inferior to the original.

When it was my turn to pay, I broached this Important Discovery with the cashier; an elderly man with a moustache that would make Tom Selleck jealous.

Me: [Holding up a box to show him] “Did you know they make these without a hole in the front???”

Old Cashier Dude: [Caught off guard by the zeal in my question] “Um, excuse me sir?”

Me: [Shaking the box wildly] “These.  I almost bought these, but they don’t have a hole in the front.  Why would anyone want boxer briefs without a hole in the front?”

Old Cashier Dude: “Oh, sorry, so you don’t want to buy these then.”

Me: “No.  Just these ones that have the hole in the front.”  

[He is ringing me up, and I am just dying to know what he thinks of the situation]

Me: “I mean, they’re making it harder for you!  Do you want more work?  I certainly don’t.  I just don’t understand this.”

Old Cashier Dude: [Obviously uncomfortable with the subject at hand] “Right, well, I’m not sure sir.”

After that I gave up.

He clearly did not want to talk with a stranger about underwear that day, and I guess I can’t blame him.

But I’m telling you, next time I go to buy some more, I’m going back to that Macy’s and I’m going to get some sort of opinion out of that guy.

There is no way he can’t have a strong reaction to this, these are things that must be talked about!

He is going to talk underwear with another adult male and he is going to like it.