Monthly Archives: July 2008

it’s for the best


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.


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.


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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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.


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.”


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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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.


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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