Monthly Archives: July 2008

it’s for the best

Well.

Here we are again.

I see you have another movie coming out.  Yes, I’m proud of you, but no, I’m not going to see it.

Why?

C’mon Ben.  Let’s not do this again.  We did this after Meet The Parents.  I told you, I just don’t think you’re very funny.  Actually, what I said was, and I am reiterating this again:  “You really fucking suck.”

I know, I know, your movies always make tons of money, and believe me, that makes me happy for you.  It’s great that people pay money to see you play the exact same dumb ass character in every single movie you make.  Hey – look at Adam Sandler – he’s made a career that way too!

What – no Ben – no!  I don’t want to hear about how different Tropic Thunder is going to be.

Because it’s not.

You know it’s not and so do I.

What do you do in this movie Ben?  Let me guess.  Do you somehow manage to get yourself tangled in an awkward situation and then the wild and crazy hijinks ensue?

You do???

Well – I’m shocked!

Oh jesus man, if you do that damn Zoolander face one more time, I swear to god – I don’t fucking care about “Blue Steel” dude – I just don’t!  Yes, it was funny the first time, but not anymore!  It’s time to move on!

Look, we’re friends, right?  So I can tell you this and it won’t hurt your feelings, right?  You’re terrible.  You’re not funny and really never have been. You’re also one of the worst actors of all time, and if you keep starring in these fucking dumb movies, you’ll dethrone Keanu as the worst ever.

Yeah, well, I know.  But I thought Point Break was pretty sweet, so that gives him points over you if I needed a tiebreaker.

I know, as they say, the truth hurts.  It’s going to be alright buddy, just keep your head up and try and think about others before you make another movie that makes people cry inside.

Huh?

Oh, yeah, sure man.  I’ll still come over Friday for Pizza and Pop Night.

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that’s what friends are for

I’m a lucky man.

I’m lucky because I have several really close friends whom I can depend on to tell me when I’m doing Something Stupid, or just my everyday normal Chris, You’re Being An Asshole kind of stuff.

But I realize that a lot of people aren’t lucky like I am.  A lot of people don’t have friends who will tell them that despite what they think, telling the large man with biceps the size of a child that his shirt is terrible is actually not a good idea.

One of these unlucky souls was this priest in Brazil.

The story goes, because I know you’re too damn lazy to click on that link, that the priest attached hundreds of balloons to a chair and floated away in order to raise money for a good cause.

I’m not going to get into the fact that the cause was to build a church for truckers, because that’s an entire other post for another day.

As you can guess, this Brilliant Idea did not end well.

The priest’s body was found a day later in a river.

This guy had no close friends.

There is no way he could have, because one of them would have told him that maybe, just maybe, floating away attached to hundreds of balloons was not the best idea.

He had no Jimmy to explain, “Why not a bake sale? They’re pretty fun, and people love chocolate!  Why don’t we do that?  You know, instead of your suicide mission?”

There was no one to stop him.  Not even people who barely knew the dude.

I can’t imagine the priest presenting the idea, “So yes, I just float away!” and no one shaking the shit out of him and telling him that it was fucking stupid.

I can imagine that once the guy got a couple hundred feet in the air, he might have started to have some regrets.  Perhaps starting with his apparent love for truckers.

But this is what happens when people lack Good Friends.

They do Stupid Things and no one tells them, “Hey dude, I think you might die if you do that.”

Now all those truckers will just have to pray in their trucks, and really, that’s the saddest part of this story.

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decided

Yesterday I became a Comic Dude.

I went and bought Watchmen (which is fucking awesome) and I started reading it on the train ride home, feeling everyone’s eyes upon me.

I understand people judging me, because 1) I do this all the time and 2) when I think about Adults Who Read Comic Books, I think of this:

All of that.

The stomach, the bad clothes, the pony tail, the yellow skin.  Okay, maybe not the yellow skin.

No.

Definitely the yellow skin.

I even got the harshest criticism from Ari, who is great and loves me, but referred to my new purchase as “My dork book.”

I was a little tentative about the whole thing.

This isn’t to say I’m not a fan of comics, I was raised on The Punisher and Batman, thanks to having an older brother who would only punch me eight times when I tried to read his comics without asking.

So I get the whole comic book thing.

But I just didn’t know if I was ready to be That Guy.

Then right before I bought Watchmen, I twittered about how I was questioning this Major Decision, and I got some support from other bloggers, which made me feel better.  Even though those bloggers were both attractive women which means they can do whatever they want and everyone will think, “I can’t believe she does that.  But she’s hot.  So it’s cool.”

I thought about all of this, and I chose to become a Comic Dude.

I’m not afraid of what others may think of me, because I know that deep down in my heart I am Cool, and as long as I know that, then it doesn’t matter what people think about me.

Plus, when people look upon me reading my comic, and I sense that they are about to say something like, “Nice comic book dork!  Your Mom buy that for you?” I will look up from my reading material and reply, “No, she didn’t, and I am not ashamed to read comics as an adult!  Also, just so you know, I will be blogging about this!!!”

That should shut them up.

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he and i

There are not many things that I hate more than doing laundry, which is why I drop it off and have some slender Asian man do it for me.

Every time the pile of clothes in the apartment approaches a size large enough to scare me in the middle of the night because the sock dangling from the jeans looks like a Strange Man’s hand about to strangle me, I undertake the task of bringing it to the laundromat.

While I don’t actually have to do anything other than bring the man my dirty crap, it is always more dramatic than I ever want it to be.

I understand that the two of us – the man washing, drying and folding my laundry and I – enter into a relationship that requires certain degrees of humility and respect.

Me, being the Bringer Of Smelly Objects, must at all times act with extreme modesty when presenting my items to the man.

I know that he knows that somewhere buried in that white sack is Something Unfortunate, and it is better for both of us if I keep my head low when I hand off my laundry, because there is certainly nothing to be proud of in that bag.

The man sees that I am going about my business in a humble way, so he displays the amount of respect I deserve for not caring that another man touches my boxer briefs more than I would like him to.

The dance goes like this:

I go into the laundromat, place the bag on the floor, and step back slowly – keeping my eyes to the ground in a manner that says, “Yes, these are mine, and I am sorry.”

He gives me a nod and a grunt that I think means “Your undershirts should be burned” and places the bag on the scale.

I wait.

I watch.

He calculates the cost and I give him the money.  I let him keep the change out of fear that if I don’t, he’ll “accidentally” bleach my t-shirts.  Again.

I turn and leave knowing that I must return several hours later to pick the clothes up.

This is how our relationship works.

There can be no detouring from this path, because I know that one mistake by me and suddenly my favorite Larry David t-shirt won’t be mine anymore.

It’ll be his.

 

(New links are up on the Okay Playa! page, so go check them out and show those bloggers some love.)

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not right

Because I like to punish myself, I was watching the new season of Project Runway last night.  I was barely paying attention when a new contestant introduced himself as “Suede.”

Yes.

Like the leather.

No last name.  No “Suede Smith.”  Just fucking Suede.

I cannot tolerate people who go by just one name.  Of course Prince had to take it one step farther and name himself a fucking symbol, but let’s not even get me started on how much I think Prince is overrated and how I can’t fucking stand him and how one of his friends should have punched him in the neck for thinking it was okay to call himself a damn symbol.

If I’m ever lucky enough to have a healthy kid and he/she grows up and becomes famous or whatever and decides to change his/her name to just one odd name – I am not going to be a Proud Papa.

I can see him ready to discuss it, and me not exactly agreeing with the decision.

My Once Awesome Creation: [With confidence] “Dad. I’ve decided since my solo career is really taking off, I’m going to just call myself Tunes.  So from now on, just refer to me that way, okay?”

Me: [Looking up from my beer which is upset with me for leaving it] “What?  No. Your name is Jason.  Shut up.”

My Once Awesome Creation: [Confused and frustrated now] “But Dad – I’m 25 years old – I can do whatever I want!  I am going by Tunes!”

Me: “Oh you can do whatever you want alright.  You can go ahead with your plan of having everyone think you’re a fucking idiot or you can just go by your real name.  I’m sure everyone will love you Tunes.  They won’t think you’re a fucking moron at all.”

My Once Awesome Creation: [Storming off] “You just don’t understand my art!”

Me: [To myself] “You’re right, but I do understand my beer, because it never acts like a fuck-up.”

There’s no reason for the one word name.  None.

You either have talent or you don’t.  No gimmicks and one name crap is going to change that.

If my kid tries to pull this stunt on me, you better believe he will be disowned faster than he can say, “But Dad I love you!”

You love me?

No you don’t son.

No you don’t.

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life is beautiful

There are special moments in my life that really make me appreciate things.  Moments that make me Smile On The Inside and think, “Somehow Nicolas Cage is still making movies, but life is really alright with me.”

I had one of those moments yesterday.

I was walking down Broadway on my way to Barnes & Noble in search of a book that, despite what you’re thinking, did not have any naked women in it.

Between thoughts of “Is it possible for your back to sweat so much that it actually melts?” and “I bet my feet stink” I heard some dude ahead of me yelling at the top of his lungs.

This being New York, I don’t really pay attention to people yelling, unless they’re yelling directly at me, and even then, unless they’re making fun of my shoes or Something Important like that, I usually just keep moving on with my day.

But this guy was different.

I was walking toward him, and slowly I was able to hear what exactly he felt the need to scream about at 1:37 in the afternoon.

At first I didn’t think I heard him correctly, but then sure enough he yelled it again:

“I fucking hate black people!”

Woo hoo!

I knew this was going to be a good one.

Because of the crowded sidewalk I still couldn’t see the guy, but I kept making my way through, closer and closer to the afternoon fun.

He continued, to my delight, with his tirade: “I wish I could fucking kill them all!  Fucking black people!  Fuck them!”

Then, just as he finished the last rant, I saw him.

He was black.

When I came to him, I stared and walked past, with a huge smile on my face.  I couldn’t help thinking of that Dave Chapelle skit about the blind, black KKK leader, and how much this dude with a feverish hate for – well, himself –  just made my day.

It was a moment that made me happy.

A little exchange with a crazy person that kept me chugging along and thinking, “If I was fucking insane, I think I’d like to be like that guy.”

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prophecy

Bogus.

That was the first word out of my mouth this morning when I looked out the window and noticed that it was raining.  And unfortunately I was not just waking from an awesome dream in which I was hanging out with Bill and Ted.

I don’t use bogus lightly either, I usually reserve it for Times Of Great Stress, like when I found out that Horatio Sanz was getting dropped from Saturday Night Live.  Dude was awesome.

The first word you speak in the morning is an ominous one.  In my case, I’m pretty sure because I said “bogus,” my day is going to be, sadly, depressingly, bogus.

I’ll probably step in a puddle and get Wet Foot (the worst thing that can happen to you aside from dying) on my lunch hour, then have to replace the water cooler twice.  I’ll be living in hell, is what I’m saying.

If only my first word had been something more cheery and upbeat.  You know, something completely uncharacteristic of me.  Then I would have a good day, because once that first word hits the air in front of you – your day is planned out.

In a lot of ways, your first word in the morning is like your first word as a baby.

Whatever your first word was, it has a great bearing on what you’re like as an adult.

Mine was “ball.”

This sounds good, right?

No.  No it was not good.

I said ball, but what I held in my hand was an egg, which I promptly threw against the wall.

Perfect.

Now you see what I’m saying.  I said something pretty dumb and as an adult, I’ve never been confused for the brightest bulb in the pack.  I like simple things like Big Trouble in Little China, Gonzo Grape bubble gum and Coors Light.

If I had said something Brilliant And Thoughtful, like “Momma” when I saw my Mom, maybe things would’ve turned out better for me.  Maybe I’d be an engineer or that dude who invented Lunchables.

But I’m not.

I’m just a blogger and really, that’s okay with me.

As long as I don’t get Wet Foot.

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saving the world one cubicle at a time

I’ve often wondered what super powers I would have if I suddenly became a super hero one day.

Becoming a super hero always seems to happen by accident or some Strange Incident, so I imagine I’d be ordering a bagel and instead of giving me scallion cream cheese the dude would give me Radioactive Cream Cheese and Zap! I’d have super powers.

My first choice is always to be able to fly, because then I could irritate all my friends by flying above them and throwing fruit at their heads.  Small fruit, of course.

I’m not a total asshole.

Then I think that maybe I’d want Super Strength, so I could play in the NFL and be The Best or maybe just be able to shove people really hard when they walk too slow.

The more I think about it though, the more I realize that along with some cool super powers, I’d be destined to get some kind of lame super power, like the ability to fix staplers when the staples get all stuck in there.

Not that I wouldn’t be in demand, because I would.

Nothing is more annoying than having a stapler jam on you.  You sit there, swear under your breath, then open the thing up.  Then you have to start digging at the little crunched staple that somehow messed up the whole damn operation and you always end up pricking your finger.

With me around though, the world would be free of this annoyance.

The instant someone’s stapler jammed, I’d get this feeling that Something Is Not Right, and I’d fly off to save the day.

It’d be a kind of crappy life for a super hero, always having to read about how Superman saved some kids (who were probably brats anyway) from a fire while I was off helping Steve in HR resuscitate his Swingline Heavy Duty.

But I’d do my duty because that would be The Good Thing To Do.

With great power comes great responsibility, right?

Right.

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spread the word

Because two of my good friends got married over the weekend, I had to go inside a church for the first time in a very long time.

Churches have always been weird to me, going back to when I attended Catholic School from first to eighth grade.  I remember we used to have to go to confession once a week at the church on school grounds, and  my friends and I used to get together beforehand and make up sins to tell the priest.  My favorite was, “I yelled ‘shit’ when I fell down.”

That one always scored me Cool Points with the boys, but somehow failed to impress the girls.

Friday night I entered the church for the rehearsal, and instantly started making fun of it.  I did that because I’m mature.

As we lined up, walked, then lined up, then walked again, I just kept thinking of more and more things that made me uncomfortable about churches.

Like pews.

They’re really uncomfortable and every time you sit down, you end up slowly sliding down into an eventual heaping blob because the back is made of slick wood.  Then the other people cast their Judging Eyes at you because they know that Jesus never slouched when he sat and you are going to hell because your pants are making that weird boner shape that they make sometimes when they get bunched up.

What they should do is have a bunch of couches.  Then everyone can be comfortable and maybe not hate every second of being there.

And what about the pictures of Jesus plastered all over churches?

Look, I know why I’m there.

I don’t need to see Jesus’ smug face everywhere I turn.  Every time I saw another picture of Jesus in the church on Friday I kept thinking he was giving me The Stink Eye, knowing all about how I mostly tried looking up the Catholic school skirts of all the girls instead of studying the bible during class.

When rehearsal was almost finished I was ready to leave, having come up with many reasons why I hate being in churches.

But then one of the groomsman noticed a big cardboard sign that changed everything.

And to think, all this time I thought churches weren’t fun.

Let’s consider that picture a public service announcement.

 

(I have joined in the great Testament project over at Half Deserted Streets, so if you want to read a post of mine about dating, please take a minute and check it out.)

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under my skin

Hello everyone! Chris is having a spa vacation, getting facials and having his eyebrows waxed and his heels exfoliated and he asked me, Melissa Lion of Recovering Californian fame, to post for him. He also asked to borrow my fluffy pink robe and some pointers on “girl talk,” both of which I gladly gave him.

Because Chris has built a whole blogging empire on describing things that drive him nuts, I thought for my guest post, I’d add my two cents. I thought I’d identify new annoying things because perhaps these things are underrepresented. Maybe there are a few blog readers who are sitting there thinking, well, I love this blog, but what about the things that make me want to throw bricks and inanimate objects? What about the things that drive me nuts? Okay, that might be just me who feels that way. And I also might have the thought that Chris should post a picture of him with his shirt off. Maybe after his spa trip, he’ll share that.

Things that drive me nuts:

Renee Zellweger

What the fuck is she so pinchy about? What is so damn wrong in her life that she always looks like she just drank a pint of cat piss, and enjoyed it the tiniest bit? I’d like to believe she looks like that all the time because the war in Iraq isn’t going quite the way she’d like, or maybe the injustice that a book as seminal as The Bridges of Madison County never reached the status of, say, the Guttenberg Bible, but I’m fairly sure her face is permanently in ass-pucker mode because she not only slept with, but married a guy in a puka shell necklace.

Physical Affection

I’m not so into the touching. Particularly when I don’t know the person. Please don’t fake-slug me in a solidarity way, like, “hey, wasn’t that funny when I said that thing about The New Yorker’s Obama cover?” Um, it would have been a lot funnier if you hadn’t touched me. I don’t want to hug after the first time I meet someone. Sure we got along great, but if I hug you, some of your cells and hair and dander might be on me. Once we know each other for several years, then perhaps a hug is in order. Like at a funeral.

Exiting Public Restrooms

I’m not a germaphobe. I wash my hands after using the restroom, but I don’t use a paper towel to open the door, and I don’t use my elbow. I press the door open in the appropriate place with my hand. For a few reasons, 1) Enough people use paper towels to open the door that I’m fairly certain it’s clean by the time I get there 2) Enough people use their elbow that I don’t need to worry about their hands. However, seeing people contort themselves to avoid a potentially germy restroom door, makes me question my own tactics. I mean if it’s important enough to look like a jackass, well, maybe I’m in the wrong. Maybe I’m the one who’s a dumbass. What can I say, I always seek out an opportunity to be self-reflective.

Inflatable things

It’s just impossible to ever get them fully inflated. Impossible. The valve must close. And then ugh, that critical teaspoon of air escapes and the thing that’s supposed to be rock solid is squishy like an overripe peach and goddamn it, there is nothing you can do.

Sitting in the passenger seat in a parked, but on, car while the driver fiddles with the heater/ air conditioning / music selection.

These things are supposed to be done while driving.

Gritty Bits in My Sheets

One day (soon) when I’m a millionaire, I’m going to be a humanitarian. I’m going to travel to a third-world country and buy an orphan and bring him back to the states and show him how democracy works. He’ll live in deluxe accommodations in the basement, kept warm by the water heater; he’ll learn to read by cooking elaborate meals from expensive, inaccessible cookbooks for me and my family (he can totally eat the leftovers); and he’ll get his exercise by carrying me around town on a Chesterfield filled with feathers and draped with gold tapestry while my admirers throw gilded lilies at my feet. He’ll also change my sheets daily because as soon as I feel the smallest, tiniest little thing in my bed, I can’t sleep. I’m up and itchy and crying because Mumsie and Dadsie NEVER let their baby girl sleep in day old sheets and WHAT HAS MY LIFE BECOME???!?? Okay, I just get annoyed and then fall asleep thinking about what I’ll name my personal third-world orphan – Hope? McKenzie? Joe?

Okay, I think that’s it. Except I also hate the commercials on commercial radio, gristly meat, when mechanics tell me to “smile,” and melons. Maybe the next time Chris goes out of town, we can cover those other things, or maybe Chris will return and do a post about them as a form of thanks for the pink kitten-heeled bedroom slippers I lent him.

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