assassin

I’ve discovered something about myself that I feel compelled to share with you – I am an expert Uno player.

The best?  Perhaps.  Better than you? I would bet my first born on it.

It’s uncanny, really.  It’s like I have this sense that tells me when and how to play the perfect card, leaving my opponents shocked and awed in my wake.

I’m even better at Uno than I am at the times tables, which is

64!

See?  I’m so good at times tables that I knew you were thinking, “Well if you’re so good, what’s eight times eight?”  But I’m even better at Uno.

I know you’re stunned.  I know you’re wondering how on Earth I could have a blog and be good at Uno, but it’s true.

From now on, I’m going to have to issue a warning to all who play me, because the swiftness and ruthlessness with which I play can crush even the most skilled player.

You’ll be sitting there, admiring the blue cards being laid down, then bam!  Next thing you know I’m dropping a Wild Draw Four on your ass, changing the cards to green and asking if you want a box of tissues to wipe the tears that I know are on their way.

It’s that brutal.

And trust me, I’ve been skipped and I’ve seen reverses that would make Robocop frown.  But I remain unfazed through it all.

My eyes will pierce you with their calm during the storm, just waiting for the inevitable:  Me yelling “Uno bitches!” and someone after the game saying that they “Can’t stand playing games with Chris.  What the fuck is wrong with him?”

But this is the life I lead.  I did not choose to be skilled at this game, Uno chose me.

Come and challenge me if you feel you have the skills, but I must warn you, it will not end well for you.  I am the best Uno player that

28!

a work in progress

Yesterday Ari and I went to the Brooklyn Museum because it was raining and it was the only thing we could think of to do that didn’t involve sitting on the couch.

I know you enjoy hearing about the intense boringness that is my life, so I have provided you some of the highlights from my day at the center of art and smelly old things.

• The secret, apparently, to getting your collection featured in a museum is…  Boners.  That’s it.  Just put some boners on your art and there you have it. I counted at least seven different installations with boners galore yesterday.  Who knew that when I was 16 and busy staring at Leslie Carter in study hall I was creating a work of art?
• Security guards at museums are not your friend.  They were giving me The Stink Eye the entire day, and I was seriously unnerved by it.  Of course, it might have had something to do with my Boner Speech that I made to Ari.
• When we came upon a little stone statue of a bear, the title was “Crouching Bear.”  I remarked to Ari that I would like that to be my nickname from now on, saying, “It’s perfect.  Because I’m strong, but people don’t expect anything crazy from me.  Then, suddenly, I attack!”  She sighed and said that “Grouchy Bear” was a much better fit.  Sadly, she was right.
• At one point I was talking loudly and Ari told me to stop being so loud.  Of course I got louder and started wondering why you have to be quiet in museums in the first place.  The art can’t hear you.  What, am I going to wake up the boobless mummy?  Is the ancient carpet going to rouse from its beauty sleep and maybe start vacuuming itself?  Because frankly, it could use it.  Silence is for losers.  And boobless dead people.
• The people who work at the gift shops have to have the most boring jobs ever.  I was about ten seconds away from poking this woman yesterday just to see if she was still alive.  I also saw a pretty sweet dinosaur key chain and I wanted to know how much it was.  Yes, of course it was T-Rex.  I’m not some kind of idiot.

That about sums it up.

As you can see, I can be quite the entertaining museum guest, providing you with useful information and exclusive insights.  In fact, I may have just found a new career path.

I wonder if Leslie Carter is job hunting too.

 

(New links are up on the Okay Playa! page, so please go check them out and read some great bloggers.)

accessorize

With winter fast approaching, my mind is turning to Important Things such as hot chocolate, the crunch of leaves under my feet and writing my name in the snow.  With my pee.

Another thing I have been thinking about forever or maybe just since I started writing this, is whether or not I should become a Scarf Guy.

I’ve never been a Scarf Guy before, but I’m thinking about giving it a try.  I don’t really know why other than I’m bored with my life and that minimal change would somehow make me feel like I’m Doing Something.

The more I think about becoming a Scarf Guy though, the more I realize there’s nothing minimal about this change at all.

It’s a major, life altering decision.

First of all, most Scarf Guys tend to look like this:

Pretty Jude - prettier than the prettiest woman.

And yeah, I know.  Lots of women love Jude Law and his terrible movies about love and being in love and loving to love love.

But I don’t.

Plus, I see myself as more like this:

Looking to kick some ass.

Only with slightly more muscles and maybe a better haircut.

Then there’s also the fact that if I become a Scarf Guy, I’d have to start liking things like souffles, Yanni and art that doesn’t mean a damn thing other than the artist was more confused than Sarah Palin at a press conference.

I just don’t think I can do it.

But I guess you really never know.  There may come a time when I feel like looking like a complete wuss, but until then I will keep being Kick Ass and expose my neck to the elements.

That’s what all He Men do.

like no other

Joe, the guy who works in the lobby of my office building, is one of the most awesome people I know.  He’s even slightly ahead of Harrison Ford, but that’s only because I don’t actually know Harrison Ford.  

Every morning that I come in, he knows exactly the right thing to say.

If I’m having a bad morning, and I’m tired from staying up too late to watch The Island (c’mon Abram, you’re not fooling anyone – what kind of “major company” do you leave if there’s really a “big deal” closing?  You quit you fucking pussy) then I know that when I offer a “Hey Joe” he’ll just give a “Good morning Chris” back.

Nothing more.  No pressure to talk about work or anything else.

Then when I come in and I’m having a good day, he’s right there, ready with any reply necessary.  

If I’m talking sports, he talks to me about how he’s still not happy with the Jets.  If I’m telling him about how I just got a new shirt back from the dry cleaners and there’s still stains on it because I happen to eat like a small child, he tells me, “I’m real sorry to hear that Chris.”

I mean, he’s perfect!

Now I know you’re probably wishing you could come to New York and steal him for your building, but I haven’t even told you the best thing he ever said to me.

About a week ago, it was raining like crazy and there was no end in sight.  I walked in and being my usual witty self, told Joe, “It’s a beautiful day!”

But Joe had something even better than that. He smiled and said, “A beautiful day for ducks!”

!!!

I was floored – a beautiful day for ducks!  It was the most perfect reply I had ever heard, and on top of that, that’s all he said.  Because he knew that was all that needed to be said.

Whatever they’re paying Joe, they need to double, no triple it.  Men like that only come around once in a million years.

Imagine what he’s like at a cookout!  Or maybe don’t, your brain might explode simply from the thought of it.

options

No matter how much you like your job, there is always a point in the day when you feel yourself slowly losing your mind.

This goes for everyone, even Matthew McConaughey, who just has to flex his pecs, star in terrible movies where he plays the same dumbass every time, and sometimes say brilliant things like “Alright, alright, alright!” for his job.

My Point Of Peril is always the last hour before I leave the office.  Everything is fine until then.  The beginning of the day is great, I do some work and make some calls. After that maybe I make some jokes about setting up a hammock between the printer and my desk and having my coworkers give me a push whenever they print something out.  

Then, in the space between the morning and The Last Hour, I do lots of other crap that isn’t very funny and rather boring, like counting how many paper clips I have in my top drawer.  There’s 27.

When that last hour hits though, I completely lose my mind.

I start to think about suicide, and how really, it wouldn’t be that bad of an idea.

I could just kill myself.

Just end it all.  Then there’d be no more Last Hours and no more watching the clock creep by.  

I’d just be dead.

Of course I’d type out a letter to all my friends and family, and even print out a good forwarded email (Snoopy drinking a beer is one of my favorites) so that they all get a laugh.

It really wouldn’t be that bad.

Sure some people would miss me, but they’d get on with their lives by thinking, “Well, he did say that his last hour at work seemed long, so I understand.  He’s in a better place now.”

Somehow I never end up doing it though, I trudge through my Last Hour and get up and do it all again the next day.

Maybe I should start flexing my pecs more.

Yes, I think that will make things better.

sleight of life

David Blaine is at it again.

If you haven’t heard, the idiot’s latest “trick” is that he’s hanging upside down for 60 hours in Central Park.

Of course I hate David Blaine. I’m a living, breathing, person. This latest stunt from the so-called magician has just sent me over the edge, though, mainly because I’m more of a magician than he’ll ever be.

You want magic?

Yesterday I sat through eight hours of work and didn’t think about hurtling myself out of the office window once – that’s magic!

Then, after work I got drunk and only said “fuck” seven times – shazzam!

And even though I was drunk I didn’t massively over-tip the cabbie and make him think that I wanted to Go Steady – taa-daa!

This morning I took a shower and remembered to wash behind my ears – an amazing feat!

Before setting off to work, I picked up Jack’s pile of turds without getting any on my hands – there’s a trick for you!

And now I’m writing yet another blog post and not getting paid a damn thing – ooohh… ahhh!

Finally, ladies and gentlemen, I will do most of this all over again tomorrow! And the next day!  Until I die! That’s a fucking magic show for you:  Just trying to get through my life.

Come one, come all, for every day until he’s old and tired and has to wear diapers – which doesn’t seem like that bad of an idea – Chris The Master Illusionist!

Poof.

UPDATE:  Jessica just sent me this link, showing that Blaine doesn’t even hang for 60 hours like he says he is.  He stops once every hour!  I hate that guy.

(If you want to read my take on women’s fashion, please go check out my guest post at Kindredly.  Kablooey!  Hmmm… Kablooey?  Sorry.)

i don’t like sushi anyway

On Saturday night, Ari and I went out to dinner at a Japanese tapas place for our friend’s birthday, and things went slightly different than planned.

From the beginning, the people working at the restaurant seemed a little confused.

Drinks were wrong, food came out differently than it was supposed to and one guy even had to wait almost forty minutes for his beer.  Which he never got.  He ended up having to get a different one because after all the waiting, our server finally told him that the beer he wanted was out.  The guy is nicer person than me, because if I had to be sober for that long in public I would’ve punched someone’s baby.

As the night went on and I tried to pretend that the girl sitting across from me didn’t make me want to stab my hand with my fork, everyone got their final course, except me.

So I sat there.

And sat there.

I was being Adult Chris, mainly so that Ari didn’t give me A Talking To, so I just asked the server a couple times where my food was.

Forty-five minutes later, the owner comes out, and this is when the fun began.

He came to the table because he heard that we were complaining to the server about my food.  At first, he was calm, hearing about all the things that had gone wrong, and then, I think maybe he lost his mind.

He gripped the end of the table with both of his hands and yelled, “This is our best!”  Then he stormed off.

I thought about this, and how awesome it would be to always give this response, no matter the situation, but decided that yelling, “This is my best!” at people would just be another thing I do that does not make Ari very happy.

After the owner yelled at us, we decided, “Whatever, let’s pay and bounce.”

Meanwhile I was about as drunk as William Shatner because I’d been drinking Goose and sodas and still hadn’t eaten.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, the owner was back at our table.  He looked repentant, so I was thinking he was going to apologize for flipping out and making me grip my knife in defense mode, but he instead proceeded to accuse of us saying that we hate Japanese people.

I think that was the point we decided to leave without paying.

Not only was the dinner terrible from start to finish, we were now outed as the secret Japanese haters that we all knew, deep down, we really were.

Having gone and experienced this place and its loony owner, I think I’m now qualified to write a review:

Bozu offers a quaint atmosphere.  If you and your racist friends have always wanted to not get your food and get yelled at by an owner, then make a reservation.  For the full treatment, just be sure to make it under “Stupidjaps.”

teenage wasteland

On my way home from work last night, I noticed something on the train that made me sad.  There was sprawling graffiti written on one of panels above the seats.  But that in itself is not why I was upset.

What really bothered me was what it said.

Torture.

That’s what was written.

Is this all the guy who wrote that could come up with?  If so, it really has me concerned with the young delinquents of our society.

Back when I was a budding little terror, vandalism had an edge to it, dammit!

Martin Craig and I used to stroll the late night streets of Pittsburgh peeing on store windows and lighting our G.I. Joes on fire and throwing them at houses.

I know.  You’re thinking, “How did you light your G.I. Joes on fire?” Well, we discovered a way to make a sticky substance that burned by mixing gasoline and styrofoam together.  We were good kids.

But now, there I was, looking at some kid’s version of Being Bad, and it just made me shake my head.

How did this even happen?

Tommy: [Spraying the final “e” in “torture” and turning to his friend] “Awww yeah…  Check that out!”

Ray: [Noticing the work] “Does that say ‘Torture?'”

Tommy: [Smiling proudly] “Hells yeah!”

Ray: [Scrunching his face in an attempt to look exactly like Tony Montana from Scarface, a look that he has worked on for countless hours in the bathroom mirror] “Yeah!  That shit is awesome!”

Tommy: [Excitedly now] “For sure man, I thought, you know, torture is hard!  It’s hard to get tortured man!  Or, or, ‘you better watch out, or we’ll torture you!'”

Ray: [Picking up his backpack] “Definitely feeling that man.  That whole torture vibe is rough, people are gonna be shocked!  We’re gonna shake their whole world up with this one!”

There’s no way those kids are ever going to have a future in being The Bad Boys to entice, and then years later repulse, all the women, and that just makes me sad.

The youth is a lost cause, and there’s only one thing to do about it.

It’s time to call Martin Craig.

speed kills

Living in New York, I get to experience all the terribleness that is Walking With Others.

Every day, every single moment of my life, is dominated by walking to or from somewhere.  And unfortunately, there happen to be lots of other people doing the same thing.

The worst, obviously, is tourists.  You can spot them by the way they stop in the middle of the sidewalk and the general pace of their walking, which I’ve clocked at just above the speed of a toddler.  Who has one leg. And no eyes.

Let me make a Public Service Announcement:  The sidewalk here is like the road where you live.  You do not just come to screeching halt on the highway and you do not putz along at 25 mph either.  Unless you want to get shot.  I suppose that’s your choice.

While the actions of tourists can be maddening, it’s the Close Walker who really angers me.

You know what I’m talking about.

You’re walking along, maybe listening to Tennessee and thinking about how it’s a song about how god told this guy to move there, which is really kind of weird, when you notice a person walking closely behind you.

The Close Walker never seems to know what to do, so you must become, as the brilliant George W. put it, “The Decider.”

You have two ways of dealing with the Close Walker:  You can slow down, let them pass and maybe give them a glare saying, “Yeah I heard you, just leave me alone!”  Or you can speed up and leave them in the dust, which of course is the more immature thing to do.

Which is why I do it.

Close Walkers present a certain challenge to me, a challenge that I like to meet head on and smash, smash, smash!

When I hear them approach, I tense up and prepare myself for their attack.  I like to let them gain a false sense of confidence by letting them pull up next to me too.  Then, in a flash of blazing speed, I pull away.  Often I even make a “vrrrooooommm!” sound in my head as I do it.  This, I find, makes the situation much more intense.

As the Close Walker fades behind me, I do not look back.  They know they’ve lost.  I don’t need to rub it in.

If you’re faced with a Close Walker, I beg you to not accept defeat and let them pass by.  Speed up and know that you are better than them, simply because you can walk to the bodega for a Slim Jim faster than they can.

Oh, and feel free to use the “vrrrooooommm!” sound, trust me, it’s worth it.

 

(Now that you’re done here, first leave a fabulously witty comment, then go and enter Stoogepies contest, in which you can win a prize worth $600!  All you have to do to enter is vote for Chrissy at the Bloggers Choice Awards as the “Hottest Mommy Blogger.”  Which she is, so just do it.  It’s that simple!  The prize is worth it! Plus, if she wins it means we took down one of the mega bloggers, Dooce.  Now go vote and stick it to the man! Er, woman!)

just a boy

I couldn’t shave this morning because I ran out of shaving cream yesterday and I may have been too distracted to buy more and instead bought some Silly Putty.

Which is Good because you can make a ball and copy comic strips and then stretch them out and laugh, but Bad because you can’t use it to shave.  At least that’s what I hear.

Without a way to shave, I arrived at the gym and for the first time today looked at my face.  It was that instant that I realized something terrifying, disheartening and terrifying all over again:  I still can’t grow a beard.

This wasn’t a big deal when I was 17 because only the hairiest of the hairy could grow a beard.  But now, at 29, it is a big problem.

I remember my first attempt to grow some Man Face, and let me tell you, it was a disaster.  Back then I had two spots that wouldn’t grow hair and they were big – so I ended up with this scraggly Amish-looking beard that frightened small children and made women frown.

Not being able to grow a beard as an adult is especially troublesome to me because it basically means that I’ll never be a real man.

Never.

No matter what I do or say, because I have this little, tiny patch under my chin that won’t grow any hair for some scientific reason, I will never be able to proudly say that I Am Man.

Sure I work out and have abs that you could bounce a penny off of (that sounded manly right?) and sure I box and sure I like sports and sure I Enjoy The Women, but I’m not a real man.

It’s sad, but that’s the way it is.

At least I still have my Silly Putty, which, by the way, I made into a perfect little box last night.

That has to count for something, right?