Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The Best Week Ever

I'm pretty sure I've just had the best week ever. VH1 does this show every week that chronicles the pathetic and often hilarious lives of mostly b-celebrities while ridiculing nearly everything about pop culture, including the show itself. But at the end they usually pick one celebrity, has-been, animated character or otherwise and dub them as having had the "Best Week Ever". Well, I'm pretty sure I should be a candidate this week. I should write them a letter. Maybe I will. It seems to be working with NESN so far.

The last week started out with my birthday on Friday. I turned 28, and if the rest of my 28th year is half as sweet as my first week then it's going to be one hell of a fucking good year. I took the day off, drank coffee, drank beer, watched VH1 (this is not a shameless promotion for VH1 or anything, I just really like that shit). I rode my bike, which I'm doing a lot more of now that spring is finally in the fucking air. I swear I threatened to move out of this cold-ass city about 80 times this winter alone. But I'm still here, and now instead of walking from bar to bar on a Saturday, I can ride my bike from bar to bar. Which is exactly what I did on my birthday. I didn't pay for a beer or a meal almost the entire weekend. There was sex, drugs, rock and roll - ok, there wasn't any actual sex but it was thought about, ALOT; and there wasn't really any drugs, well, nothing too out of the ordinary, and while there was music involved, it would be a stretch to try to convince any of you that Tori Amos and Bjork are "rock and roll".

I slept a lot this weekend. It was perfectly complete - except for one thing. Fuck Face was missing. She abandoned me for someplace warmer, prettier, nicer and cleaner than Boston. And it was her birthday too. Granted, she was born a year later, so technically it was my birthday first, but whatever. Fuck Face and I made this pact a few years back that we would always spend our birthday together. Well, it was a lot easier to do that when we both lived in the same fucking city. I blame her. I blame Fuck Face.

I missed her on our birthday. We are both Aries, and fit all the negative traits of Aries perfectly. We're bossy, headstrong, selfish, loud attention hogs. Each year we spend the day after New Year's to March 24th advertising our birthday every chance we have. We love generating as much attention to ourselves as possible. And then, when the actual day comes, we just want to be left alone.

Our work has this great tradition of "The Birthday Lunch", where you eat lunch with all of your coworkers and they get to ask you birthday questions followed by a present and cake. It sounds like an Aries wet dream, doesn't it? But it's not. See, Aries only want attention that they have been grabbing themselves. They can't really cope with attention that is out of their control. When you think about it, it makes perfect sense.

Fuck Face and I always banded together on this day to try and thwart the attention-intensive festivities. We would try things like both answer each other's questions, or only answer questions with a 'yes' or a 'no', or sit next to each other and ask each other questions so that no one else can. We're jerks, but this year we were at separate offices, alone, forced to fend for ourselves amid the constant fistfuls of attention being thrown at uncontrollable speeds. It was awful.

But she is on her way here now, the perfect finish to my best week ever. Oh, and I get paid tomorrow. Woo-hoo!

Friday, March 25, 2005

The Bitch: My Favorite Bartender

I'm an Aries. It's my excuse for most of my bad behavior. I'm selfish, I'm loud, I'm overbearing, I'm a know-it-all, I'm cynical, I'm rude, I'm inapproriate, I'm a genious. And I'm always right. I'm an Aries. To the casual observer, I am all these things. But "once you get to know me" (I hate using that phrase), or any traditional Aries personality, you realize that our strong personalities and overbearing nature are really just facades meant to hide our many insecurities and weaknesses. It seems to work pretty well, so we just keep it up.

Some of my favorite persons are Aries. Mrrr, Fuck-Face (who has the exact same birthday as me, but was born a year later), Steven Tyler of Aerosmith. And then there are the cuspers...particularly the Pisces/Aries cuspers. They are also some of my favorite people, but since they aren't true Aries, I have to pretend that they are inferior. Like my favorite bartender, The Bitch. She's been my bartender at my neighborhood JP pub for the past 6 years, where I spend more time than I do my own living room (or my Great Room as I'm trying to call it). She started out so intimidating, kind of like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld, but serving an even more important substance, beer. For years I was scared of her. Then I seduced her. Not literally, I just turned on the Aries charm, sat at the bar alone more, and starting saying "fuck you" back and making snide remarks to her face. She respects me now. I think. Don't ask her that, she'll probably deny it. But she did tell me that the only thing keeping her from leaving her husband and having a torrid affair with me is the fact that I'm gay. I told her sometimes I make exceptions. We'll see.

Recently me and some other regulars - who convene at the pub every Wednesday night when The Bitch is working - gathered at the bar for lunch, to help celebrate her birthday. The place was rather busy for a Saturday afternoon, and she was especially cranky. She seemed thrilled when about 10 of us showed up and ordered food and drink. She was at her best, rolling her eyes, yelling at us from the bar, and asking us "What the hell do you want this time?" every time one of us went to the bar for a refill. She's the best! After lunch two of us snuck out to the car where we were storing a three story chocolate cake with raspberry-kalhua filling. Madge baked it and I decorated it. (It's my Gay Super Power - decorating cakes, and I'm pretty fucking good at it too). We entered the bar, candles lit and the entire bar serenaded her in a stirring and sloppy rendition of "Happy Birthday". Her smile appeared, tears welled up in her eyes, and she was the happiest bitchy bartender I've ever seen! It was great. This is what Bostonian community is all about. A bunch of people, mostly strangers, gathered in a pub, honoring the one that provides a constant supply of beer and libations. It was beautiful.

Well, today is my birthday, and the bitchy bartender has promised to return the favor by getting me drunk over lunch. Speaking of beer, it's past 11 am on my birthday and I have yet to open a bottle. To the fridge!

Thursday, March 24, 2005

The Eleventh Game

I just got GREEN MONSTER tickets for a Red Sox game. I was selected in a random drawing that enabled me to be selected randomly for the chance to be randomly selected to have a chance at getting tickets. It was chancey, but I did it! This is my ultimate acheivement in life thus far. And I'm nearly 28. Tomorrow will be my birthday. I can't think of a better gift I could have gotten myself. Thank me. Thank me very much.

This makes eleven games me and Roommate will be seeing in person at Fenway this coming baseball season. How did we get so many tickets? you (as well as many other people) are probably asking yourself. Well, it wasn't easy. No we didn't get one of those 10th Man Packs. No we don't know anyone with season tickets, at least not anyone who actually likes us enough to give away 11 games. And no, we didn't sleep with anyone (although I seriously considered it and was halfway undressed at one point.) We waited patiently until individual tickets went on sale in January.

We woke up early that Saturday and I logged on to while Roommate went to get bagels. Tickets went on sale at 10 am and we were there, waiting for our chance to get in. Of course, once you "get in" you are then placed in a virtual waiting room where a counter counts down thirty seconds at a time, refreshing the browser at zero and maybe, just maybe letting you into the area where you can actually select your tickets -- or counting down for another thirty seconds all over again. We spent from 9 am until about 6pm sitting on the couch, literally waiting in a virtual waiting room. We even had pizza delivered to the house so as to not miss a single thirty seconds and possibly fuck up our chances of getting to see even one game at Fenway this year. Well, now we get to see eleven. Shazaam!

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

The Letter to NESN

While watching NESN's coverage of the Red Sox vs. Reds game tonight, I remembered a disturbing trend in sports coverage (mostly on FOX). For some reason the networks feel that they have to fancy-up the game with annoying moving graphics, loud and disturbing sound effects, and lame vignettes and features (including FOX's Star Wars parody starring the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox before last year's ALCS.)

I remembered this tonight because it seems that NESN is trying out some of that "new-fangled technology" themselves this year. With new additives such as home plate level replays and picture in picture coverage of the outfield and the infield, I began to fear the future coverage of the Red Sox that NESN has constantly provided. Sure, it all starts out with simple innovation --like a camera at home plate or a microphone in Kevin Millar's uniform -- and the next thing you know the game is being announced by a fucking animated baseball named "Scooter" who treats everyone like it's their first baseball game and they are five years old with shit oozing out of their pants while hugging a security blanket. (See Fox's 2004 postseason coverage...a travesty.) Well, I knew that complaining about it on my couch would only affect my roommate, and blabbering on about it on my blog would only affect the few people who actually read my blog (mainly said roommate) -- so, coming from a background in activism affecting social change, I decided to do something about it. So I wrote a letter and sent it to NESN. It reads:

Dear NESN,

First of all, I want to thank Remy and Co. for providing such great coverage of the Red Sox in Florida. As an avid Sox fan, I prefer to watch the coverage on NESN than on any other sports channel around. A few of the many reasons for this is the depth of knowledge of the game of baseball, the sense of humor between Remy and Orsillo, and of course the history and talent that NESN brings to announcing the greatest game in all of sports.

But the main reason I prefer NESN coverage over all others is the LACK of bells and whistles that accompany the sharp wit, watchful eye, and accurate play-by-plays by Remy and Orsillo. Channels like FOX tend to distract from the game with distractingly fancy graphics, loud and overbearing sound effects, and uncomfortable features and vignettes. NESN has always kept true to the nature of the game, its coverage as classic and traditional as the game itself.

However, while watching NESN’s coverage of Red Sox Spring Training I’m starting to get concerned. I see the beginnings of "FOX-like" coverage emerging in the form of weird camera angles at home plate and picture-in-picture coverage (showing the outfield in the main screen and the runner of the bases in a smaller screen in the corner.) I hope that NESN is merely trying out these new bells and whistles and finding-- like me--that they are actually detracting from the viewer’s experience of the game as opposed to enhancing it. Please consider the Red Sox fans and NESN viewers and keep the coverage simple, sophisticated, and as distraction free as your sponsors will allow.

Thank you for your time and understanding. I’m looking forward to many more days and evenings tuned into NESN and watching the Sox have another Championship year!


Citizen of Red Sox Nation
Jamaica Plain, MA 02130

(Don't make me start a petition or organize a call-in day.)

The Philosophy of Life by Fat Joe

As I mentioned before, Fat Joe was down for a visit this past weekend, and she left me with a little bit of wisdom to take me through the rest of my life. It is a song, perhaps Fat Joe's first composition, inspired by a trip to the dump with her father when she was just a tot. And it goes a little something like this:

"Big Bird at the dump,
all rusty and rained on.
That's what it's all about."

And she's right. That is what it's all about. Thanks Fat Joe.

Monday, March 21, 2005

The Apparel of Mystery

I sometimes wear this shirt that says "I Heart Purvis". It was a birthday present from J Lo a few years back. Oh, there's a story. Of course there's a story. It's not just a random shirt that says "I Heart Purvis" for no particular reason. There's always a story to shirts like that. Which is starting to become a problem.

I don't wear this shirt very often. Maybe 4 or 5 times a year -- at the most. You see, I feel a bit self-conscious in it. It's a baseball-style shirt --white with light blue sleeves and iron-on words that make up the text: I Heart Purvis. And the 'heart' is actually in the shape of a heart, bright pink and fuzzy like velvet. Yeah, it's a little faggy. Thank god they aren't three-quarter sleeves.

The other part of the problem is that everytime I wear it, handfuls of strangers ask me what it means, forcing me to emerge from my usually routine and comfortable life and actually speak to someone new. It's annoying. "Excuse me, what is Purvis?". Or usually, "Who's Purvis?" And of course, there is always one dumbass who says "Does that say you love pervs?". Hilarious, but too much attention.

Apparently my tshirt has an air of mystery to it. Not many tshirts make people think "What does that mean? I must get to the bottom of this mystery. I won't rest until I know the truth. I must know.", let alone actually approach the person and pry into the meaning of their tshirts. It must be a tshirt's ultimate fantasy to be thought of as "mysterious". The envy of all other tshirts. My initial reason for writing this was to tell the story of this tshirt. To answer the question: Who or what is Purvis? But I've convinced myself otherwise. I think I will let the mystery of Purvis remain a mystery, including its sexual orientation.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

The Hurricane and Harry Anderson

I'm sick. Five days before my birthday and I'm sick. There's really only one person to blame. Roommate. He's been sick for the last week and now me. I should have seen the signs when I woke up choking on my uvula a few days ago. But I ignored the signs and now I'm here, on my couch without any orange juice or drugs.

J Lo drove up from New Jersey with her sister for the weekend. We were joined by Fat Joe and her boyfriend, Float. We did the eating and drinking tour of Boston, as we always do. No matter where we go it seems we end up eating and drinking our way through whatever city we are in. New York, Boston, Portland, New Orleans, it doesn't really matter. We spend our days looking for places to eat, then finding a bar somewhere nearby to drink the afternoon away, before moving along to some historic restaurant where we can eat some more and probably grab a pint or two before settling in for the night at the next pub.

Of course this sometimes has its drawbacks. You can end up spending your entire time in a new city indoors, drunk and full. However, sometimes you find yourself in a bar in New Orleans with J Lo, sitting next to Harry Anderson (of Night Court) drinking hurricanes while he goes through a bottle of scotch. And if you stay long enough, you just might see Harry finish his scotch, stumble out of the bar, fall on the sidewalk, get back up and walk away. And if you stay even longer, you may end up having too many hurricanes yourself, getting kicked out of a cab later on, stranded in the worst neighborhood in New Orleans without any idea how to get home. But you'll get home, eventually, and the next time you're in New Orleans (or New York, or New Brunswick, or Newport) you'll do the same thing all over again. With or without Harry Anderson.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

The Jude Law Effect

I haven't washed my hair for about two weeks. I don't consider it dirty or gross. Of course, you tell other people this information, and they usually look at you for a minute, scrunch up their nose, say something along the lines of "ewww" or "sick" or "you fucking hippie", and walk away. This is fine with me.

People are way too obsessed with hygiene these days. Is it really necessary to shower every single day of the week? Is there really anything wrong with going for a couple of days without putting on deodorant? If I forget to brush my teeth before heading out the door and use a stick of gum to mask my offensive mouth odor, that's ok. I'll brush them later. But apparently in today's obsessive, germ paranoid, and consumerism-dependent society this behaviour is unacceptable. The instructions on the back of my shampoo bottle (ok, my roommate's shampoo bottle - I don't actually own any shampoo) says: "Lather, Rinse, Repeat." Repeat? Why? I bought this damn bottle of shampoo (ok, my roommate bought it) and I have to use twice as much - in effect meaning I have to BUY twice as much? It's a conspiracy - a conspiracy to brainwash consumers into using more so that we have to buy more. It's bullshit.

And what's the deal with expiration dates? My soymilk says that it is good for 7 days after opening. 7 days? Really? I've had the same soymilk for two weeks now and it's just fine. It also says to "Shake well and buy often." Point well taken. Assholes.

And this whole "refrigerate upon opening" shit needs to stop. It's ok if you leave the mayo out for a couple of hours, or the sour cream. And you don't need to refrigerate butter. It's unnecessary, people. I've been eating un-refrigerated butter my whole life and I'm convinced that none of my problems can be directly traced back to that. It's fine. Plus it stays soft that way and you don't have to microwave it every time you want to spread it on something. It just makes sense. Unlike microwaves. They make no sense. I don't understand a person who freaks out about the butter being left out on the counter, yet sticks everything they eat into a small electrical box to heat up using radioactive waves of air.

For the record, Jude Law only washes his hair every two weeks at the most - and he's been named Sexiest Man Alive. Serious.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

The Average Life of a Major League Baseball... 5-7 pitches, according to the poster above the urinal in the bathroom at the Brendan Behan Pub in Jamaica Plain.

I learned this and many other interesting facts tonight, as I do almost every Tuesday at Pub Trivia. Of course tonight, seeing as how this upcoming Thursday is St. Patrick's Day, all of the questions revolved around Ireland and her history. Now I've been to Ireland, once, so I figured tonight we were a shoe in for victory. Of course we were aiming high for second place, as first place is a crock of shite. See, first place is a gift certificate to the bar for your next visit (which is useless...cause who the fuck is going to remember to bring their 'gift certificate' to the fucking bar the next time they want a pint?). Second place is a free round of drinks, right then and there, for you and your team. And third place (if they even offer it, which is very rare) is the worst -- a beer-themed T-shirt. The last time I even saw this prize offered it was an XX-Large Molson Ice T-shirt, which I regretfully won. I only wear it to sleep in, or when painting something, or to bleach my bathtub.

So tonight we, the team named Big Red after one of my favorite lesbians, won second place. And it was no small feat. I got there early to establish a table (and treat myself to a nice pint of the black gold. Ahhh, Guinness -- chock full of iron. Really, it's practically a health smoothie), which is usually not a problem. But apparently tonight I was not the only one with this brilliant idea. So, I figured I'd take care of myself and find a place at the bar. The rest of my crew could fend for themselves. This proved to be the most strategic place to spend a night of Irish Trivia when at an Irish pub called the Brendan Behan -- belly up at the bar with the Irish bartender and his Irish friend. To Big Red's credit, we did know some answers: The Pogues, The Quiet Man, James Joyce, the colors of the Irish flag, and other obvious tidbits. But it was our friend the bartender and his trusty sidekick 'Billy' that clinched it for us. Without them we would have been like so many others in the pub that are clearly only Irish when raising a pint of Guinness.

Instead, we were raising a free pint of Guinness after 'winning' second prize, a free round of beers. We got one for Billy, our auxiliary teammate for his strategic contribution to the team. Maybe it's true that cheaters never win, but sometimes they do come in second.

Monday, March 14, 2005

The Gateway Food

I ate a salad for lunch today, in an effort to get "healthy". I realized recently that I never eat fresh fruits or vegetables. People tell me that I should. So I ate a salad for lunch today. A big salad. But everytime I eat salad for lunch I get hungry two hours later for cookies. I'm convinced that salad isn't actually healthy, it's actually a gateway food that leads to cookies.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

The Boycott List

Here's a parial list of current things I'm boycotting and why. You can join any of these boycotts at any time by simply boycotting them. It's super easy.

Joan Cusack...
...for her new movie Ice Princess. What happened here? Did her and John get into a fight and this was her revenge? It's terribly, terribly sad.

Blue M&Ms...

...for misleading voters and starting a trend in democracy that would have horrific ramifications for years to come. When you voted for the new M&M color (purple or blue) did you know that they were going to get rid of the tan color in order to make room for this new color? Neither did I. So, in order to voice my opposition to this twisted version of democracy, everytime I buy a bag of M&M's I take out the blue ones and give them to someone else.

Wendy's Fast Food Restaurants...
...for being so ridiculously homophobic. However, I will use their bathrooms and pee on their floors. Fuckers.

Taco Bell...

...for screwing over tomato farmers around the globe. And also because everytime I eat there I feel sick.

The Silver Line...
...for reasons previously discussed. Click here.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

The Last Time

I'm never taking the Silver Line again. I say this every time I take the Silver Line because every time, without fail something goes wrong. I either wait for 30 minutes in the cold, get stuck in a traffic jam for even longer, get in an accident, or like last night, or a combination of the above.

All I wanted to do was get to Beacon Hill, look at a used bike with Mrrr, then go get some dinner and a beer or two (alright--probably four), and go home. Very simple. What I forgot was the Silver Line is against me. It doesn't want me to be able to do these things. Everyone tells me how great the Silver Line is. People love it. "It's so convenient," they say. "It's so reliable. It's so fast and friendly." Well, I have an entirely different opinion. (read The Big Vagina).

Last night did nothing to change my already terrible attitude towards the Silver Line. Once again, Mrrr and I waited patiently. 10 minutes later I was still rambling on about something unimportant and Mrrr was listening politely. 20 minutes later I was still talking and Mrrr was checking her cell phone messages. 25 minutes later I stopped talking so I could start complaining, still no Silver Line. Just when I was ready to start walking, I caught a glimpse in the distance of the unmistakable lights of a bus. Hope seemed to fill everyone standing in the cold around me. You could feel it coming out of everyone and lifting them up, warming the air around us as we saw the bus approaching. We could even see through the windows of the bus, meaning it wasn't so crammed full of people that this time there would actually be room for us, maybe even get to sit down. And we were happy.

But the bus didn't stop. It just cruised by us. The hope in the air quickly deflated. People started yelling, and some started running after the bus, shaking their fists in the air hoping to make a difference. To my surprise, the bus actually pulled over about a block away from the stop. The doors opened and a few passengers trickled out. Everyone began to run towards the bus, yelling that the stupid bus driver must have just forgotten to stop. Yelling and running, but relieved that we would finally get a ride, we all got to the back of the outside of the bus when the doors shut and the bus sped away into the cold snowy night.

A state of confusion, disappointment, and mostly rage ensued. Some people looked for the next bus, hoping it was right behind us, others yelled obsenities about the other bus driver, and others got on their cell phones to make complaints directly to the MBTA. I was one of those people. Some very nice, very loud, and very angry woman helped me out by yelling the number of the bus to me as I was on hold with information trying to get the customer service line. As I was being connected, the next bus arrived. This driver, who I'm sure is a perfectly good human being, had no idea what he was in for. As everyone boarded the bus, each person had a bit of wisdom sprinkled with profanity for the driver. I felt bad for him, but still managed to mumble something under my breath as I dropped my token into the new stupid machines they have installed in order to make bus travel more efficient. I guess if it's more efficient to make people drop each coin into the receptacle separately, insert their card into the slot and then have to wait for their card to reappear, or wait for a "Charlie Card" receipt good towards their next ride, then this new system is great. Also, you're drunk. I don't see it increasing efficiency on the Silver Line when it takes the bus 30 minutes to get there and then it takes an extra 10 mintes for people to board the goddam thing.

But I digress. Where the fuck was I? Oh, right. I was cold, pissed off, and boarding the Silver Line. But the night was only going to get better from here, right. I was with Mrrr, sitting on the bus, on my way to food and beer. Perfect. That wasn't so bad. I was still complaining about the Silver Line though. And I pretty much had the agreement of everyone on the bus at this point. But it couldn't stay this "good" for long. And it didn't. Not more than two blocks from where we boarded the bus, the bus driver slammed on the brakes so hard it threw people towards the front of the bus, someone yelled "Mom are you okay?" and the cursing began once more. The few people cluttered at the front of the bus started yelling something about a license plate number and once again the cell phones came out. Apparently we had just been in an accident. The bus driver was now speeding towards the car that had cut us off and clipped the front of the bus and Chaos was our new leader. I just sat there. I was finished. I just wanted a beer. Why was this happening?

As the police came, and we filed off the bus, the bus driver was asking for any witnesses to come forward and I knew that I would never get to my destination, I would never get my beer, and I would never ride the Silver Line again.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

The Revenge of the Bloated Uvula

I woke up this morning choking on my own uvula. For those of you who don't know, or those of you whose minds are constantly in the gutter, the uvula is that punching bag looking thing at the back of your throat. You perverts are probably confusing the word 'uvula' with the word 'vulva'. Entirely different. Look it up.

The swelling has gone down a bit now, but it was pretty bad this morning. Everytime I would swallow my uvula would go down into my throat, cutting off any air supply to my delicate lungs and triggering the gag reflex. I spent my morning shower doubled over, waiting to throw up due to my gigantic, puffy uvula. Gross, eh?

This has happened once before. I woke up one morning, same as today, literally choking to death on my own self. I don't know what could have caused my uvula to blow up like a water balloon. When it happened the first time I seriously thought I was going to die. I called my doctor who--after I made a pretty compelling case emphasized with illogical sentences strung together in between horrifying sounds of gagging and choking--agreed to meet me at his office on a Saturday morning only to tell me that he had no idea what the problem was but that if the swelling didn't go down by the afternoon to call him again. It did, just like today.

I'm pretty sure both instances have something in common. Unless I just have some weird random uvula inflation condition. Which could be I suppose. The only similarities I can think of is that both mornings were preceded by a late night of heavy drinking and smoking Winstons. I'm pretty sure it's the Winstons, since late nights of heavy drinking happen with some regularity.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

The Poem

Instructions for Crossing the Border

One method
not the best
is to learn again
the names of things

This is a cigarette
these are my hands

There are no faces
in the ashes
the smoke
in the fan's blades
feels no pain
and passes on
to no better place

No glut of fathers
chokes the oven
No constellations rise
in the night sky
behind the closing
refrigerator door.

the habits worn
into tiles
are the product
of human toil

These things
are things

Your sense of
an impending
of things
must be put down


Here is your passport:



I found this poem years ago. I was at some show at The Middle East in Cambridge, MA in 1997. Someone was handing out some booklet that contained music reviews, show listings, advertisements, etc. This poem was on the back cover. I tore it off, put it in my pocket, took it home and hung it on a wall in my bedroom--where it still hangs today.

Monday, March 07, 2005

The Big Vagina

I went to get my picture taken with a giant vagina last night. It was going to be great. Ever since Valentine's day (the other V day), Mrrr and I have had this running joke about a big vagina that eats everybody. Actually, I started it--which is no shock. I think vaginas are funny. Well not the actual body part known as the vagina, but the word 'vagina' itself it funny. Say it with me..."VAGINA". See? It's hilarious!

Anywho, Mrrr and I were standing outside--in the fucking freezing Boston cold that never ends--on February 14th, popularly known as Valentine's Day, waiting for the stupid Silver Line which claims to be a high-speed bus line or some fucking shit like that. Well, if you have bought into the hype that Mr. Menino and the other jackasses have been touting since before the creation of this lame excuse for a "line" of transportation, here's a little speakin' the truth to power for you.

As we were patiently waiting for this accordian bus to arrive and take us to a lame bar to meet up with some other perpetually single friends on the lamest holiday of the year, we were looking up at a scrolling marquee sign that tells one the current time and the approximate waiting time until the next bus would arrive. It went from '6 minutes until the next bus' to '17 minutes until the next bus'. Apparently the bus was going in reverse. So, as we waited I made up a story of a big vagina that ate everybody. Actually, it wasn't really much of a story, cause that was it. Just a big vagina that ate everybody for no reason. It passed the time.

We've gotten a lot of mileage out of that one sentence in the past weeks, attaching it to the end of nearly every story we have, every announcement we make, every question, every thought, etc. Take this sample situational conversation for instance:

Conversationalist #1: Hi. How was your weekend?

Conversationalist #2: Pretty good. Thank you for asking, how thoughtful. I read a really good book about something really important that I can't remember. What did you do this weekend?

Conversationalist #1: Oh, not much. I woke up really early on Saturday, did some laundry, watched Best Week Ever on VH1 and then hit the bar. I got really drunk, it was still light outside when I got on the bus to schlep my drunken ass home. The bus pulled up to my stop and then a BIG VAGINA CAME AND ATE EVERYBODY!

Conversationalist #2: Whatever.

See, hilarious. Anywho. A few days ago Mrrr sent me this email:

Sent: Thu 3/3/05 11:21 PM
TO: Howard
Subject: and then a ...

oh my god we could get our picture taken with a 'giant vagina'!!!

Vagina Fair at the Milky Way Lounge & Lanes Sunday, March 6th, 2005 403 Centre St. Jamaica Plain, MA 02130 617-524-3740 Come for one last hurrah and celebrate V-Day in true carnival fashion. The Vagina Fair is a great opportunity to play games, eat as much cotton candy as you can and get your picture taken with a giant vagina. There will be a DJ as well so if you’re not into games or giant vaginas, the dance floor can be your oyster shell. 8pm. $7 21+ LGBT Friendly

I couldn't believe it. I felt like Charlie Brown in the Great Pumpkin Patch. I had been talking about a giant vagina for weeks and everyone around me thought I was just some blockhead. They didn't believe me that there was a big vagina that went around eating everyone, but I believed. And here was my chance. My opportunity. Not only could I go see the big vagina, but I could get my picture taken with it, post it on my blog and prove to all the unbelievers that the big vagina does exist!!!

But Mrrr forgot her ID and the dickhead and his clit partner at the door wouldn't let us in to even see the giant vagina.

(For the record, they had balloon genitalia on their heads. One was a dick and the other was a clitoris. I wasn't just being mean.)

The Resolution

I realize it's only March, but I've given up on my "New Year's Resolution". Actually, I didn't give up, I changed it. I realized shortly into the year that I wasn't all that happy with my resolution. I didn't really think it through before I declared it to a group of friends over a champagne toast after hours of drinking and dunking bread into hot cheese. At the time it made perfect sense:

"I, Howard, hereby resolve to complement people without adding a sarcastic and hurtful addendum to the complement thereby negating the complement altogether and turning the entire episode into yet another instance of me putting people down for my own fun and amusement."

In theory, this is a fine idea, I guess. I noticed--after my roommate belligerently and repeatedly pointed it out to me--that whenever I give someone a complement I immediately undercut it by following it with snide, sarcastic, rude or otherwise offensive comment. For instance, "Hey roommate thanks for trudging down the hill in the cold and snow to get me that bagel this morning. (short pause) Is it too much to ask for some fucking cream cheese? Jesus Christ." or: "Hey, that's a really cool shirt you have on, roommate...if you're a retard." You know, things like that. Actually, now that I'm putting this in writing, I think this is more my roommate's issue than mine.

But alas, I made this my New Year's Resolution--to just give a compliment and then let it lie. Compliment, and just walk away. So I started training early. I spent the bulk of December trying to get my standard compliment-then-stab-with-serrated-knife approach out of my system, thinking that I would basically wear myself out of clever quips and be left with just the compliments. Turns out, it was much harder than I had anticipated. But the next thing I knew it was New Year's Eve and I had publicly declared my resolution. There was no turning back. Well, yes there was, and I did.

After a number of failed attempts in just the first month of 2005 I changed my resolution to "drink more water", which is not going so well either.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

The Best Go-Go

Why is Jane Weidlin on a celebrity reality show on VH1? I've spent a good amount of time attempting to convince people that she was the best Go-Go of the bunch, and now this. I even tried to boost sales of her first solo album by telling people that "Rush Hour" is a really good song. Next thing you know, Sammy Hagar will be making out with Flava Flav while Brigitte Nielson smokes cigarettes and cheers them on during that other stupid fucking "celebreality" show on VH1. And all my hard work of touting him as the better Van Halen frontman will go to hell. But even if he did pull some stunt like that, he could still kick David Lee Roth's ass any day. I mean, come on, the man can't drive 55.

Reality TV has just gone too far. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way. I miss the days of the sitcom. I keep wondering how many more reality TV shows have to surface before they gain such a monopoly of air time that they actually start suffocating themselves. I give it four more years.

I'm terribly disappointed in Jane. She was the cool one. Belinda's arch rival. The bad girl of the group. Every boy/girl band has one. Except Huey Lewis and the News. They were all good. Which is why they sucked so bad. They needed a bad boy in that group to widen their audience. I'm sure many people would disagree with my opinion that Huey Lewis and the News was a boy band to begin with. But they were. So fuck off.

Saturday, March 05, 2005

The First Cut

So, I'm watching the movie Groundhog Day. I haven't seen it before. I realize that it's an old movie, but my hatred for Bill Murray has kept me from seeing alot of things. And just when he starts to impress me by starring in movies like Rushmore and The Royal Tennenbaums, I see this piece of shit. It's amazing to me how my opinion of someone can go from brilliant to disappointing in just under two hours. Bill Murray is not alone.

I also folded my laundry today (mostly out of sheer boredom from this goddamn movie. I mean, Jesus Christ, I should have brought a book). But I refuse to match up and fold my socks. It's so much easier to just throw them in a drawer and match up pairs as I make my way through life. I thought that as you get older you are supposed to get more mature. Besides, if you actually take the time to match up your socks, inevitably you will find out that you've lost a few mates in the shuffle and then you end up with less than you started with. It's not worth it.

This movie just gets worse and worse. It should have ended when he drove the fucking groundhog off the cliff and they both died in a fiery blaze. That would have been brilliance, but this is just sentimental bullshit.

I did my taxes today. And I opened up some mail that has been piling up on my desk, on my floor, and in various other places around my house for about the last 6-8 months. I just don't like mail. I don't like a lot of things. I used to keep a suitcase in my room. Every time my mailslot got too full to cram any more unopened bills, credit card offers, newsletters, cards, etc. into it, I would take the pile and throw it into the suitcase. I got yelled at by a coworker for this behaviour. Apparently, you are supposed to open your mail, sort through it, throw away the junk mail, and respond to the important stuff. So I threw out all of the mail in the suitcase, and started stock piling mail again. I cleaned out my mail again today, after doing my taxes. Actually, I recycled it all. Most of it unopened. I can't be bothered with it. It's unnecessary. Kind of like this movie.

I haven't kept a journal in years. I used to. It was part of my Mormon upbringing. I don't do alot of things that were a part of my Mormon upbringing. I suppose this blog thing is the new journal. Kind of how orange is the new red. It's experimental. Secretly I'm hoping that as I spew out my brilliance onto this "internet", someone will somehow stumble on it, and fame will find me.

I've been watching alot of Seinfeld lately. I mean a LOT of Seinfeld. I can't help it. I love the show. I think it gets better and better the more I watch it. When it was originally aired, I hated Kramer. I thought he was a ridiculous character - one dimensional, unfunny, over the top, and well, unnecessary. Kind of like this move. But the 25th time through, Kramer has become my favorite. Even replacing that loveable whore, Elaine. I've been watching so much of this goddamn show that I've actually started to channel Jerry Seinfeld in my regular conversations with friends, family, coworkers. I didn't think it was possible to channel a person that is still living, but I find myself saying things like:
"I mean what is up with gay people? It's like they are all going back into the closet so that they can all come back out again! What's with that?"

It's not funny. It's unnecessary. Just like this movie.

I ate girl scout cookies on the bus yesterday. Samoas. I realize they aren't called that anymore, apparently it's offensive to name a cookie after an entire people. I don't know. Those samoas are good fucking cookies. I never eat on the bus. Or the subway. It's wrong to eat on public transportation. But I was drunk.