Monthly Archives: February 2008


Well we’ve got our first real snow fall today. It’s been coming down pretty steadily since I got up at six. It’s coating this city with a pristine white coating, hiding all the dirtiness and momentarily quieting the rumble of the streets.

And I hate it.

I hate snow. I’m not twelve anymore. I don’t get to go sled-riding at the park. I don’t get to stay home from school, watch Duck Tales and drink hot chocolate.


I am, despite my girlfriends claims, an adult. I have to go to work in dress clothes, only to have them soaked by the nasty slush of the streets. And did I mention this? I wore a wool trench coat to the office today, which basically attracted the snow to me so that when I stepped into the office, I looked like the abominable snowman – if he wore nice dress shoes. I also have to shovel our stoop and the sidewalk when I get home from work.

Snow is not fun for me.

It does not make me laugh. It does not make me ponder the wonders of mother nature.

In fact, it seems like this is mother natures way of sticking it to me. She remembers all those times that I forgot to recycle. She remembers how when I used to smoke I’d just flick my butts wherever, never caring about the litter I was creating.

She knows that I’m an adult and I can’t do anything remotely fun when it snows, especially here in New York. So basically, every single snowflake is a tiny little “fuck you” hand delivered to me by her.

What a bitch.


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letting it go

Thanks to the wonders of genetics – one day probably about ten years from now – I’m pretty sure I’m going to be bald.

That’s right.


Bald scares people.

I imagine when people first started going bald – whenever that was – mothers would rope their children in quickly when stumbling upon a hair-less head, explaining, “We don’t go near the scary bald men, they are evil. Not to mention ugly.”

I’m not scared of going bald though.

I’m scared of roller coasters (because hurtling through the sky at 70 miles an hour with only a single bar of steel across my lap keeping me from becoming a splattering on the pavement is not my idea of fun) but not of losing my hair.

I figure, things change when you get older. You know, you start to get confused and frightened by teenagers, your conversations with friends always end up being about what sickness you have and for me – I’ll lose my hair.

I’ll tell you what I won’t do: I won’t be trying one of those treatments or hair-replacement surgeries.

The guys that do that are confused about life. They think, for some reason, that as they age life is supposed to get better.

It’s not.

By getting the hair-replacement, they think they’ve beaten fate and things will be better from now on. But in reality, their friends, instead of saying “Man, Bob’s really losing his hair, huh?” They say, “Man, Bob’s really got hair from his ass on his head, huh?”

I’m going to be fine when I lose it all. It’s served me well, it deserves some time off.

And besides, I couldn’t have gone through all of my life looking like this – could I?


I don’t think so.


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the battle

Alright hipsters, you win!

Okay?  You win.  I can’t fight you any longer.  I’ve been trying and trying to be as cool as you are, but it has become apparent that I can’t fucking do it – so I quit.

I want to be one of you.  I want to be so cool that I don’t even want to be cool.

So tell me – how do we start?

You know, I’m just a normal guy who wears normal (albeit fucking on point) clothes and likes normal things like sports and all the Conan movies.  So you’re gonna have to help me out.

What’s first?  Should I move to Williamsburg?  Done.  And yes, next I’ll remove all the hip-hop from my iPhone and replace it with bands that cleverly put “The” on the front of their names, like it makes them sound original or something.  Of course!  I realize that no one can like these bands, because the second someone does, they are lame.

Oh, yes, I’m already wearing my first pair of skinny jeans, though, I’ve gotta tell you, my nuts are killing me.  Oh!  Yeah, you can see them, can’t you?  Well, that’s what happens when men wear women’s jeans.  Not a pleasant sight!

No, sorry, I’m still in.

Okay.  Tattoo’s are next.  Yes, I’ll get really obscure looking ones so when people ask me, “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”  I can give them a look of utter disdain, knowing that they are beneath me for not realizing that I have a bar-code on my neck because I’m just a part of the fucked up system.

A mullet and a mustache huh?  Fucking right!  I understand.  I’ll wear this ugly facial hair and haircut proudly because other people just don’t realize how cool it really is.  I won’t get laid anymore because of this, but that’s cool too.  Everything I’ll do will be soooo cool.

Oh right, no more reading books about normal stuff and sports.  From now on, all you’ll ever see me reading on the train is books about politics, philosophy and weird dead dudes.  Oh man, the excitement of those books is gonna be non-stop!

That’s it?  I’m done?  So now I’m cooler than everyone right?  I can be a dick to anyone who doesn’t like indie rock and beer that tastes like I’m eating a loaf of bread?

What’s that?  No more blogging?

Fuck off bro.

You people suck anyway.


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a song and a feeling

I was at the gym this morning doing my thing, listening to my music and trying desperately to look stronger than I am, when a song came on my iPod that struck a chord with me.

The song was “Makes Me Wonder” by Maroon 5.

I can see the looks now.

Yeah, I have a fucking Maroon 5 song on my iPod.

Yeah, I know how shitty they are, but I don’t care, when that song comes on I start rocking out.

The other thing that happens when this song comes on is that it makes me feel extremely white.

Now, I’m a white dude, so I feel white all the time – but something about this song just makes me really feel it.

From the moment that the guitars hit that catchy riff, I get this sudden urge to go buy some khakis, discuss the many aspects of global warming, and read the latest issue of The New Yorker.

Am I the only one who feels this way?

Is it even okay to be writing about this?

And when is the next time those guys go on tour?

I’m so there.


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sharp as a spoon

As I said in my first post, I have a puppy named Jack.

My girlfriend and I got him from a shelter on Long Island about two months ago, and he’s been reeking havoc on our lives ever since.

This is him in his natural state.


Jack is pretty much a small, fur-covered ball of hell.  He’s only 5 months old right now, so this means – much to my delight – that he will soon be a large, fur-covered ball of hell.

Some things that Jack enjoys:

Eating discarded chicken bones off of the street.

Running around like a maniac immediately after a bath.

Jumping on every single person that comes within three feet of him.

Eating pens.

Sticking his nose up a little girl’s skirt.

Peeing in wine stores.

Eating his own shit.

These are just a few of the many wonderful moments that Jack has blessed my girlfriend and I with.

As you may have guessed, Jack is slightly dumb.  It’s okay to say it, he doesn’t mind.

Dogs, it seems, are just like people.  Some people are smart and some people are dumb.  I just happened to adopt a dull-brained dog.

This is okay with me though.  He does a lot of cute shit that pretty much makes up for all the dumb shit that he does.

He’s a good dog, there’s just not that much going on upstairs.

And because all I’ve done is talk shit on him, here’s a picture of him looking his best.


Cute right?

Don’t let him fool you.

In the blink of an eye he’ll be peeing as he walks, unlike a normal dog, who takes a moment to crouch down to do his work.

This my dog.  This is Jack.


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If any of you have been to the Trader Joe’s here, you know that all the cashiers are extremely friendly.

I don’t know if this is the way it is everywhere, but the one here in New York, they talk to you while they bag your crap.

They seem genuinely interested in the things going on in your life.

Normally, I’d rather not make small talk. I’m just not that kinda dude. But today, when my girlfriend and I went to get all our groceries, I found myself having a conversation with the guy bagging our stuff.

I had just bought a pair of shoes, and he started commenting on them, and I was exchanging pleasant replies the entire time – you know, it’s called Being a Nice Person.

Then he told me about his feet.

He told me that his feet were really small (size 5) and that they had, “huge, protruding bunions” on them from “years of ballet.”

I nodded. I looked at my feet.

Then he told me that his left foot was “much longer than his right” and they looked like “little clubs.”

I said, “Oh. Really?” Because, what the fuck are you supposed to say to something like that? “Little clubs???” What the fuck???

I also, at this point, realized why I don’t like people.

As he said “little clubs” he balled his hands up and held them up side-by-side to me. This, I guess, was the visual aid of his Foot Presentation.

The rest of our encounter went by in an awkward silence.

He knew that he had – perhaps – told me a little bit too much, and I knew – without a doubt – that I would never look at feet the same way again.


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things that matter

I love 80’s crap.

So this morning, when I was getting ready to walk my puppy (and hoping that he doesn’t eat more dirty Kleenexs along the way) I got an old song from a cartoon I used to watch when I was a kid stuck in my head.

Denver the Last Dinosaur.

Even if you’ve never heard of this cartoon – judging solely by the title – you can surmise that it was the work of pure genius.

The only thing I remember about it was the theme song. For some reason, I swear, for as long as I live I’ll remember it – and probably nothing else.

I’ll be 87 with no teeth and skin sagging.

More cynical and grumpy than ever.

Referring to my kids as, “Whatever the fuck your name is.”

And still, somehow the only clear thought in my old, decrepit mind will be “Denver, the last dinosaur, he’s my friend and a whole lot more!”


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