Thursday, March 31, 2005

Them's the Lunch Breaks

Clown Coffee: ...
Worker #3116: ...
Clown Coffee: ...
Worker #3116: ...
Clown Coffee: Oh my god, we're worse than Website and Married.
Worker #3116: ...
Clown Coffee: ...
Worker #3116: I know.
Clown Coffee: Say something, quick.
Worker #3116: ...
Clown Coffee: ...
Worker #3116: I'm almost out of groceries. I could really use some.
Clown Coffee: Yes! Groceries, good!
Worker #3116: But I can't decide where to buy them.
Clown Coffee: I'm glad you brought this up! I know just what to say.
Worker #3116: Whole Foods parking lot is always so full. Sometimes you can't even find a parking spot.
Clown Coffee: Parking! I could talk about that for hours.
Worker #3116: My husband always seems to find a spot, though.
Clown Coffee: This weekend we went to Home Depot and then we sat in our matching Barka-Loungers and watched T.V. We're really enjoying this weather.
Worker #3116: ...
Clown Coffee: ...
Worker #3116: Ha ha.
Clown Coffee: Ha ha.


As I was going to my car this morning a bunny ran across my path. You know what they say about the symbolism of a bunny crossing your path on the last Thursday in March: best Spring 2005 ever! I was all, "Thanks, bunny, for the good vibes," and bunny was all, "carrot, carrot, fear of predators!"

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but the name Courtney Thorne-Smith was spoken in the house last night. It has something to do with Stevil watching the Style network on On Demand...because he'd already worn out all of their regular programming. McCullen proclaimed that it was the first and last time her name would be invoked, but somehow I don't believe him. He's always breaking promises about stuff like never again speaking the name Courtney Thorne-Smith.

In the meantime, blah blah blah. BORING BORING BORED.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Missed Connection

Me: Wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that used to look better but are fading kind of weird. Pretending to be reading Midnight's Children but not actually reading it, a pattern I have been following since motherfucking October because the book bores the hell out of me, but now that I only have a hundred or two hundred pages left I obviously have to finish and am guessing at this point that it will take me one whole year to do so. I don't see you that often, but when I do, you're always hanging out with other people. I stare at you very intently, wishing you would come over, but you don't even acknowledge my existence. I think it's time to get together. My desire for you is intense, and constantly unrequited. Stop making me suffer.

You: Fun.

I've Got Your Nanoo-Nanoo Right Here!

Imagine that you're walking down the street one day and suddenly a parade begins to pass by. Everyone is frowning and stern, and the floats represent things you would never expect a parade float to celebrate, like AIDS and wheelchair basketball. One of the floats is all about the elementary school practice of grading children on "handwriting". It's been raining, and as each parade goes by it splashes through puddles, so that all the bunting is muddied and soggy.

No, wait, bad analogy. Okay, you're talking to your mom and all of a sudden she starts telling you this story about yourself, except that not only do you not remember doing the things she's talking about, but they're all really tawdry and unlikely, and then she begins to show you pictures of yourself from that time period and it looks like a really weird TV version of yourself, but not you, an unknown actor playing you, and you're like what is this? And your mom is like, why don't you finish your milk and go take a nap.

No. Again. No. Okay...It's late at night. You're by yourself, watching television in the living room. Suddenly, a show comes on about a surgeon being sued for malpractice. He was drunk one morning during a routine operation that tragically left the patient blind in both eyes and paralyzed from the waist down. The doctor does have a drinking problem, but he's a sympathetic character, and he's got a family and problems of his own, but obviously this malpractice suit is going to ruin him, if not land him in jail. But the weirdest part of the show is there's a laugh track but no jokes. It's really uncomfortable because they'll have the paralyzed man's wife on the stand, bawling about how her husband can no longer see her, and there will be this raucous canned laughter.

This is really hard, but I'm trying to describe the strangeness, fear, and utter loneliness of seeing this advertised on TV last night.

Look, I Rule. That's Just a Fact. Proof? I Just Told You That I Rule, How's That for PROOF?!

Did anybody else hear my Secretary of Defense the Rumsfeld on NPR's Morning Edition today? God, the man is a magician with language! Why, I could have sworn the interviewer, Steve Inskeep, had really cornered my secretary of defense when he asked him about a Government Accountability Office report that gives the lie to msodtr's claim that over 140,000 Iraqi troops have been trained by pointing out that tens of thousands of those forces have abandoned their posts. Tricky one to slip out of, no? Maybe for you, tardo, but not for my Rumsfeld. "I haven't read the report," he began. BOOM! He HASN'T read it. You can't corner a man on a fact if he hasn't read about it! Then he let loose a barrage of awesome information, showing that he knows more than everyone about everything. "We spend a lot of time on this, and we know what we're talking about." BLAMMO! Ever heard of a tautological argument, Steve Bitchkeep?! "We don't subtract from the United States military the number of people who may be in jail, or who may be AWOL." You're probably wondering, "so why would we do it with Iraqi forces?" HIS POINT EXACTLY. Again, Steve Bitchkeep tries to reign in my secretary, reminding him that the number of US troops in jail or AWOL is most certainly not in the tens of thousands. "[Long fucking pause] What we present is accurate, and the figures currently are something over 140,000, that's just a fact...It's less than that by some margin, but it's gone from 0 up to that." WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT A TAUTOLOGICAL ARGUMENT, MR. RADIO LIBERAL BIG SHOT MEDIA DISTORTER? You can't argue or logicalize your way out of a tautological uppercut like the ones I am delivering to you!

I love you, Mr. Rumsfeld, you and your magic brain that could turn the rivers into ice cream and every horse into a flying unicorn if only it so desired.

Also, black celebrities, no more murders for you. I think you know what I'm talking about.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Here You Go, Fucking Asshole

Clown Coffee won't stop bitching about how I don't write about him in my diary enough, because he's quitting smoking and it's making him into a big fucking bitch, but so anyway, somehow the subject of bumper stickers came up, and I mentioned my favorite one, which is "Mean People Suck," which is still worse than the abhorred variant of people cutting the sticker up so it says "People Suck," and so long story slightly shorter I went to google image search "Mean People Suck" because just thinking about the bumper sticker was making me laugh and think about how in fact the sentiment of the variant is true, people do suck, and are dumb, as this sticker and its variant and indeed all bumper stickers proves, and so but look at this fucking guy.

Image hosted by

A Message to My Future Demonstrators

Best headline?

Activists Appeal To God, Congress

46 demonstrators have been arrested outside of Terri Schiavo's hospice. I don't know why, but I think this is funny. "We must protect the sanctity of life, and if we don't, I'm going to throw this garbage can through that plate glass window!" Did you know that my President The Bush didn't even want to get involved in the first place? He interrupted his vacation and flew to Washington to sign the bill into law because he didn't want to! The only reason he did it was because he didn't want to, see?

When I am a brain-dead vegetable, I urge the demonstrators outside my hospice to be a little more peaceful, a little more understanding of the pain and confusion on both sides of the ideological divide. Of course, there won't be as many demonstrators, because my feeding tube won't be removed, because I have already expressed to my loved ones my desire that they dedicate their lives to ensuring I never die ever no matter the cost (financial, emotional, or otherwise.) God bless you, Terri Schiavo demonstrators, for giving us all the courage to destroy the very fabric of our constitution for the sake of...wait...wait, I had it...

Make Your Own Joke About Some Nerds

There's currently an Emo Phillips concert available for live internet audio stream and 235 people are listening to it.

[Insert punchline here.]

You Don't Know Me

I like this part in the newish T.I. video for "You Don't Know Me" where T.I. strikes the windshield of a car in a junkyard with a crowbar. It happens near the beginning and near the end. The reason I like it is because they cut away right before the crowbar actually hits the windshield, and the reason they cut away is because the man has Spaceham arms. You could wrap your fingers around his biceps, twice. Ha ha. Come on, T.I.. Stop it. He also flexes in the video. I'm honestly kind of confused because it doesn't seem like he's doing it with any irony, but considering that he's a member of a cultural group that prides itself on animalistic musculature and fiercely misogynistic heterosexuality as defined by one's physical and sexual prowess, what does he think he's doing? It's like John Leguizamo thinking he's comparable to Brad Pitt or George Clooney and trying to vy for some sexy leading man role.

This morning I forgoeded my writing time to create MEGABASS Is Megaback! The Spring 2005 Monster Mix. Too bad you're out for Spring 2005, or maybe I'd let you hear it.

Monday, March 28, 2005

All the News That's Fit To What the Fuck?

It sure is lucky the war in Iraq ended just in time to give Terri Schiavo's case the media spotlight it deserved. Lord knows, this whole issue would have been drowned out by the WAR IN IRAQ if that had still be going on. But it isn't, not really. I mean, kind of, but all the news is really good, and you don't want to hear about it anyway. Oh, look, American Idol mishap! New vote tonight!

There's Got to Be Something Funny About This. Why Can't I See It?

Image hosted by

A Joke to Tell Your Friends

Q: What's the difference between Jesus and a Mexican?

A: Jesus doesn't ride his bike home after a long day washing dishes.

Sorry It Took Me So Long to Get Back to You, Asshole

The answer is YES, you are still out for Spring 2005.

You Would Fuck Bobby Flay, You Realize That

Mccullen: Jesus Christ, we are not watching this.
Worker #3116: There's nothing else on T.V.
Mccullen: Looney Tunes Back In Action?
Worker #3116: Fine. Someone else take the clicker.
Mccullen: Finally.

[Stevil flips between Lifetime, Disney Channel, and HGTV]

Stevil: Oh, this is the one where he decides the thing.
Weather Report: I like that house.
Stevil: It's so beautiful.
Weather Report: I could live in that house.
Stevil: I know. Wow. It's soooo nice.
Worker #3116: You are both retarded.
Mccullen: Why don't you go get married and buy that house together.
Weather Report: Look at that bathroom!
Stevil: Is that marble?
Mccullen: That house is not safe. There are too many doors. Every room has a door to the outside. A family cannot have so many points of entry and egress into their home.
Worker #3116: Wow, look, you can see the highway overpass from the backyard.
Weather Report: I wish I had a mango tree in my backyard.
Stevil: I know, right?
Weather Report: It's better than an orange tree.

[Mccullen changes the channel to Food Network]

Mccullen: It's hard not to hate Bobby Flay.
Weather Report: Totally. Oh, totally.
Mccullen: But I bet he's wild in bed.
Weather Report: Yes. Totally. I bet he's really good.
Mccullen: I bet he would throw you against a wall.
Weather Report: He would!
Worker #3116: You're both fantasizing about fucking Bobby Flay right now, you realize that.
Mccullen: No we're not.
Worker #3116: You just said he would throw you against a wall.
Weather Report: He would be really passionate.
Mccullen: I didn't say me, just whoever he was with.
Worker #3116: But you were imagining yourself.
Weather Report: What is that, buffalo meat?
Mccullen: Okay, fine, I was imagining me.
Worker #3116: You would fuck Bobby Flay.
Weather Report: Oh totally!

Friday, March 25, 2005

You Are Out

Everyone is OUT for spring, 2005.

Feel free to email ( or leave a comment to see if you're out, too, but I'm telling you right now that you are.

My American Idol

FINALLY! Some actual celebrity gossip.

I don't have a lot of commentary for this one, but I've put my favorite parts in red.

American Idol judge Paula Abdul had a meltdown in Malaysia, lashing out at a friend when she found out she might go to jail on a hit-and-run charge back home.

Abdul flew to Kuala Lumpur last Friday for the Force of Nature Tsunami Aid benefit as the guest of the King and Queen of Malaysia. She joined the likes of Lauryn Hill, Wyclef Jean, Jackie Chan, Bai Ling, Joey Fatone and the Black Eyed Peas. Abdul introduced Hill at a gala concert.

The next day, however, Abdul was at her suite at the Kuala Lumpur Ritz-Carlton when she learned that Los Angeles authorities planned to file a criminal charge against her for a hit-and-run incident she was involved in last December, which carries a maximum penalty of up to six months in jail.

Abdul was scheduled to have tea with the king and queen at the Malaysian Royal Palace on Saturday but refused to leave her bed, our source reports. A girlfriend who accompanied her on the trip told her she had to pull herself together and attend, since the royals were footing the bill. But when Abdul and her pal returned to the hotel, the pop star flipped out.

Abdul scratched her friend's face and the fracas was seen by a Ritz-Carlton staffer who entered the room. Before long, word of the fisticuffs spread among the other celebs staying at the hotel.

We're told that Abdul finally cooled off, but the next day, she flipped out again during her flight back to California with the friend. She threw a bracelet at her pal and screamed that the friend "owed her money" for a hamburger she'd consumed at the hotel.

Asked about our source's account, Abdul's representative, Joe DePlasco, told PAGE SIX's Jared Paul Stern: "She had a great time in Malaysia and enjoyed her visit to the palace. She was upset when she heard about the stories related to the accident, which was resolved. And she wasn't feeling well because of a bout with the flu. But that's about it."
(New York Post)

I highlighted that last part because I really like PR reps. I like that their job is to say everything is always great all the time. I think maybe I am going to get a PR rep so that I can do anything, like punch the shit out of your eye and the next day they'll be like, "Well, Worker #3116 wasn't feeling good because he had eaten a bad peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but I think we ALL know what that's like. As far as I know, So-and-So's eye did not sustain major damage."

Mary Kate and Ashley #3116

I think everyone's getting kind of bored. Here's a sampling from last night:

Worker #3116: What's your favorite thing about garlic?
McCullen: The color.
Worker #3116: I guess the color's pretty good, yeah.

............................................................................................................................................................................................................Do you want to go on a field trip this afternoon?

Springed Has Sprunged

Yesterday we decided to take a walk to enjoy the slightly warmer weather. I guess the only reason I'm bringing it up is because there was a momentary photo shoot on a riser of bleachers involving McCullen, Stevil, and a discarded can of Axe body spray. Then McCullen smelled like Axe for the rest of the walk. Which he should count himself lucky, because it could have been a discarded plastic bottle of Bod body spray.

Am I the only one who thinks it's kind of sad that Kelly Clarkson released "Since U Been Gone" so close to spring but not quite spring? That would have been the perfect First Song of Spring to listen to with the windows rolled down, but by the time we get there I'm not going to have that many more listens left in me...I'm thinking that maybe Decemberists "The Sporting Life" could be the First Song of Spring. It's kind of jaunty...I think it's got a brass section. The First Song of Spring must always have either a brass section or a guitar solo.

March showers bring April showers bring May flowers! Yay!

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Amityville's Denial

More metal internet radio. It kind of reminds me of that scene in Amityville Horror when they discover that portal to hell and the devil says some stuff to them and then they go to bed. What I'm saying is that the singer sounds really dangerous and scary and angry and all, but then I'm like, "Well, I'm going to go to lunch, guy. Have fun with the self-mutilation and stuff."

Wow! The Internet!

The whole Terri Schiavo thing has gotten me thinking a lot about activist judges, and about how I've only had to wear a graduation gown twice in my life, but both times it felt really uncomfortable and silly. I suppose if I had felt like the graduation gown was a symbol of honor and respect, then maybe I would have felt differently about it? Or if it hadn't been made out of some synthetic polymer designed to feel like a gauzy potato sack? But activist judges have to wear these every day. That's probably why they work so hard to dismantle our freedoms and our awesome Christianity! Because they don't like wearing the clown gowns!

I just got this in an email from a co-worker, with no commentary, just the subject line "Easy as Pi." Maybe I was in France for too long, but JE NE GET IT PAS. I'm going to send him an email with this in it, no commentary, and a subject line that says, "Check Out the New York Times."

I wish Stage 1 Hypertension would just take me now. That or my armpit cancer.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


Is it just me, or can you not wait for the first snow of winter 2005? The first snow is the prettiest!!!


I'm sitting here and I'm like what is that faint whine of a eunuch dying wafting on the air? OH, someone is playing Keane in their office.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

The [Blank].C.

I believe I've already told you about my hit TV show, The A.C., about a teenager growing up in Atlantic City who is raised in a bad home and then is forced to move into a worse home. Here are a few more hit TV shows that I have:

The B.C.
A young caveman is raised with a square wheel that won't go anywhere. One day, an older caveman invites the young caveman into his bigger, nicer cave, where everyone rolls around on round wheels. The young caveman clobbers the neighbor cavegirl over the head with a club and drags her back to his new pool cave. Sometimes, though, he tries to send messages back to his old cave, and the cavegirl who he had once clobbered over the head with a more primitive club, using the message-in-a-bottle technique, often with humorous results.

The D.C.
A young senator has a terrible office at the end of a forgotten corridor in the Sam Rayburn Administrative building. One day, he comes into his office to find everything has been removed without him knowing. Although he tries to put on a brave face, he is devastated by this turn of events. An older, Jewish senator arrives with a look of charitable kindness on his face. "Hey," the older senator says, "why don't you come stay in my pool office." "What about your secretary?" the younger senator says. "Let me talk to her," the older senator says. The young senator develops an unlikely friendship with a young Jewish congressman, who just happens to be the older Jewish senator's son. In the state of Illinois it is not unusual for entire families to hold elected office.

The R.C.
A young bottle of cola feels angry and defensive about the lesser position he has been dealt in the life of colas. One day, he is accidentally placed in a cooler full of Coca Colas. While the cooler is brightly lit, and the perfect temperature, he cannot help but feel like a constant outsider. Finally, unable to take it anymore, he knocks a miniature glass bottle of Classic Coca Cola from the shelf, where it smashes on the tiled ground. "Welcome to the R.C., bitch!" the young bottle of R.C. yells. This begins a wonderful tale of friendship, heartache, and family.

The Usurper

I have been listening to metal on internet radio all morning. Where else would you get to hear the DJ say "That was 'Circle of the Tyrants' by Celtic Frost off their album To Mega Therion"?

Boar's Head

Dear Worker #3116,
This is the world, waiting for you to weigh in on the Terry Schiavo case!

Dear world,
I'm not going to talk about Terry Schiavo herself, or the specific plight of her family, because their personal problems are tragic and painful no matter on what side of the ideological divide you fall. But I will say this: when I am struck by a Boar's Head delivery truck and left in a permanent vegetative state, don't ever take me off the machines that keep me alive. Would you like to know why? Because I want to have millions of dollars in top-notch health and charitable resources drained through my brain-dead body just to prove that America is #1! With all those poor black and brown people dying right in our own country for lack of access to proper health care due to rampant and unjustified poverty, it's nice to know that Congress, the President, and indeed a large portion of the American populace will stand up and say "Even the most useless white people first!" I heard this woman on the radio today saying that people all around the world were showing their support for the plight of the Schiavos, and I hope that the same is said of me, when I lie in my permanent hospital bed, my final resting place, incapable of sentient existence. In particular, I would like the starving, murdered refugees of Sudan's genocidal conquest in Darfur to send me their prayers. I would like ALL of the victims of the Tsunami disaster, or perhaps an even worse disaster if one occurs around the time of my incapacitation and legal proceedings, to raise up with a single voice and declare "We are with you, incontinent white man! Despite our losses, both human and financial, it is our will that your life be sustained by any means necessary, even if you do not have the brain function to enjoy or appreciate it! Please, no more aid to our country. Spare not a thought, much less a dollar, for the simple suffering of worthless peoples. That you should live, even if it is not what any rational human being would consider "a life," that is our sincerest wish!" Thank you, people of South Asia, your voices have not been heard by me, but perhaps God will relay them to me in a thousand years, when atomic warfare destroys the machines that have prolonged my useless life so efficiently. Most importantly, though, when they lift my virtually lifeless body from the wreckage of cured hams and pink roast beef that will be scattered across the roadside after the Boar's Head delivery truck flips (causing expensive damage to surrounding buildings but luckily, by the grace of God himself, leaving the driver with only an injured arm or leg), at that moment, on the stretcher, my lights now effectively out, I would like my family to arrive on the scene, and maybe some friends and other loved ones, and I would like them all to dedicate the rest of their lives to the joyless task of watching me not make any improvement. I was important to you when I was brain-alive, and now, as long as my heart is still beating with the assistance of science, I demand that you sacrifice every ounce of human happiness you ever thought you might have to making sure I don't stop not getting any better. If it was not God's will that I spend the rest of your productive years in a solitary, emotionally deadening room, then why would He, hallowed be His name, have invented all these glorious machines to make that awesome possibility a totally radical reality?

Love while I still can,
Worker #3116

Monday, March 21, 2005

Au Revoir

Friday, March 18

While we wait for the taxi to come take me to the airport, my grandmother shows me photographs from their recent trip to India. She shows me a picture of two camels fucking. "This one was hollering like all get out," she said, pointing at the one getting fucked. "And this one," she pointed at the male, and started making huffing sounds. I do not ask whether it was she or my grandfather who took the picture.

On the plane trip back I'm sitting next to a fatty whose fatness pushes up the arm-rest between us. She makes sure that she's getting the vegetarian meal, and it is all I can do not to remind her that there's no meat in pies and cakes, either! Of course she watches Bridget Jones 2: Bridgeter Joneser because it's about how guys will like you no matter how fat and annoyingly stupid you are. Granted, I eventually get bored and also watch Bridget Jones 2: Bridgeter Joneser. I will say this about that movie: it makes a very strong case for all romantic comedies having scenes that take place in a Thai prison for women! Ha ha ha! So funny! How to Win a Date in Brokedown Palace! The Ten Things I Hate About Your Brokedown Palace!

As we approach our final destination I turn on that map thing where you can follow the plane. It shows our plane heading over Brazil.

I wish.

Professor Schteinbock

Thursday, March 17

In the night I dream that Steve Middlekauf, the guys from Good Charlotte, and Mick Jagger are coming to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, but the only food I can find is dried pasta, a can of beans, and some salsa.

My grandfather has started calling me Professor Schteinbock. As in, "How's it going, Professor Schteinbock?" and "Ah, Professor Schteinbock!" At breakfast my grandmother asks him why he keeps calling me that. "Because it suits him," he says.

In the week I've been here the two best disses I have heard are "couilles sèches," which translates as "dry balls," and "jus de chausettes" which translates as "sock juice." The first one was in a movie, and made in reference to a powerless man, the second was made by my grandmother in reference to a particularly weak pot of coffee my grandfather had made.

The sun has been out all week, and it's tee-shirt weather. I sit on the jetty off of Pont Neuf, reading. A little coast guard speed-boat comes speeding up the Seine and then performs an abrupt 180, sending mucky water splashing up on everyone sitting along the edge of the jetty. One guy who was talking on his cell-phone yells at the Coast Guard that he'll just throw the phone to them and they can drop it in the river themselves if they want. I like to think that this dramatic boat maneuver was in response to an accident, an emergency, but I see across the way that they've pulled up to a larger Coast Guard headquarters boat moored to the Left Bank, so I'm not sure what the rush was. There is what looks like a group of junior high students talking to some coast guard guys, so maybe that's what the rush was. On top of the headquarters boat there are some large potted trees and a barbecue. Nearby, an Italian is on the phone with a friend, speaking in broken French. "We are in the Seine," he says. He turns to his friend, "where are we?" he asks. The friend seems annoyed by his question, as he has his head in a woman's lap. "Near the Eiffel Tower," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "We are near the Eiffel Tower," the Italian on the phone says. We have to be at least two miles from the Eiffel Tower. A woman to my left is being videotaped while she plays the recorder. I'm sure this is for some prime-time French television. Their television is just astonishingly shitty.

Before returning to my grandparents' house I sit in a plaza near Les Halles and a troupe of police officers rolls by...ON ROLLERBLADES.

For dinner, we celebrate deadbeat-père's birthday, even though he didn't come. My grandfather uses a private taxi service for all of his travel needs. He reserves the taxi for a specific time, but then he still spends twenty minutes at the window, wondering when the taxi will arrive, and looking at his watch, saying, "Oh, 15 minutes still." It seems like all this waiting takes away from the convenience of having a car show up at your house exactly when you want. At dinner I order something with truffles. I love eating truffles because they are more expensive than gold but they just kind of taste like crusty dirt. I love eating them because it is a culinary insult to humanity. At a nearby table, a woman waits for her date to arrive. She smokes a cigarillo and there is a little terrier sitting next to her on a chair. This is a fancy restaurant which is why you can do things that only an asshole would do. Like smoke a cigarillo. Like have a dog with you, sitting on your chair. My grandmother keeps watching a family at a table near us, celebrating the mother's birthday. "See," she says, "some families are normal. Some children come to spend their birthday with their mother." Soon, though, she starts complaining about the family, remarking on how they asked the waiter what they should order, and how they took to long picking the wine, and how they voiced a complaint about the bread. "What's wrong with these people?" she asks.

My grandfather calls me Professor Schteinbock again. "Stop calling him that," my grandmother says. "I don't like it." My grandfather laughs. "But he loves it," he says.

Spain, Now That's Where the Fun Is!

Wednesday, March 16

In the middle of the night I wake up with my stomach making Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home style noises. When I finally fall back asleep I have a cinematic dream about two old men, one of them very Ossie Davis like, the other very white like, trying to steal a 400 million dollar fortune from the mansion of a recently deceased tycoon. The white one is always trying to steal the whole fortune for himself, but in a high-energy, action-packed final attempt, Ossie escapes with the fortune (which he wanted to share) but the burning mansion collapses on the bad guy. Soon after, Ossie discovers that the tycoon had a widow in another city, who comes forward and claims the fortune. Then he is in the South of France teaching scuba-diving lessons. In the dream, the South of France is separated from Spain by an aquamarine stretch of water, and Spain looks AWESOME. When I wake up I think "Spain, now that's where the fun is!"

At lunch my grandmother talks about how sometimes she buys $20 pants when she could buy $1000 dollar pants. I'm kind of at a it still considered a healthy respect for the value of a euro when you brag about how you have a healthy respect for the value of a euro?

On the metro there are two super-dirty, dredlocked, crusty punks with plugs in their ears and lots of leather and metal, everything black or pewter. One of them gets a call on his cellphone and he has one of the kindest, most gentle voices I've ever heard.

The only thing they watch on MTV in France is The Game, Eminem, or Dismissed (w/ subtitles).

I swear that my grandfather's fancy wine opener is broken, but he won't believe me, and it always seems to work fine when he tries it. He says I'm a redneck, and that maybe I was trying to open an apple instead of a bottle of wine. My grandmother says not to call her grandson a redneck or he'll have to deal with her.

After dinner we watch a movie about a farmer with a horrible wretch of a wife. He eventually kills her (although she tried to kill him, too) and gets sentenced to two years in prison and then he gets out and he goes back to his farm. "Pay close attention to the scene with the lawyer," my grandparents kept telling me, "it's great." When the scene came on they said "Pay attention here! Pay attention to this scene!" Then later they explained the scene to me, although I understood it. Then later they said, "Oh, that scene with the lawyer is great. Isn't it?" The scene with the lawyer was fine.

Broken Wings

Tuesday, March 15

My grandmother tells me I still need to grow, so I should eat more, but not too much because then I will have trouble finding a wife.

On the RER into the city (think LIRR, but Paris), a fat Italian and a balding Italian are sitting across from each other. The fat one keeps falling asleep, and the balding one keeps tweaking his nose, snapping him with a rubber-band, and pulling on his chin. They are a regular paisan Faggot and Costello.

I find the Williamsburg of Paris. Everyone looks at me like I'm an asshole, just like they used to in the Williamsburg of Brooklyn.

I stop at a cafe for a coffee. They're playing Mr. Mr.'s "Broken Wings".

A woman on the metro next to me is reading a book about chakras, with large, full-color pictures of different kinds of crystals.

I want to get my grandparents some dvds that I think they will like, a copy of Royal Tannenbaums and a copy of You Can Count on Me, but they don't have them. What they do have is a million copies of Willow and Mickey Blue Eyes.

I meet my grandparents and we go to see a movie called Le Couperet. It's about a guy who loses his job as a highly-qualified chemist in the paper industry. After two years of unemployment he decides to get ahead of the competition by posting a fake job opening, find anyone whose resume is as good or better than his, and then kill them. After the movie my grandmother remarks that "It would be really hard to be so experienced and out of work like that."

At the restaurant afterwards she remarks that a man at a table near by has gigantic feet, and then she calls a man smoking a cigar a dirty German pig.


Saturday, March 12

At lunch my grandpa tells a joke about muslims fucking each other in the ass during Ramadan. He laughs. "Pretty good, huh?"

My grandparents have a hedgehog living in their garden. They complain about how they have to feed him all the time. Sometimes, if they want to watch him eat, they will give him a hardboiled egg, because he can't drag it away like meat. He is forced to put on a feeding show, in this case.

Sunday, March 13

On TV there is an ad for a ballet based on Wuthering Heights. I flip through the movie channels on satellite and the following are playing:
The Client
Problem Child
They are all dubbed.

At night, after dinner, we watch a movie about a rich guy who has a contest with his friends to see who can bring the stupidest jerk to a dinner party. Just when he thinks he's found the most idiotic guy ever, he throws his back out. An evening of insane hilarity ensues when the idiotic guy keeps making things worse for the rich guy, but also garnering the audience's sympathy. "It makes me laugh every time," my grandma says.

Monday, March 14

I take a taxi into Paris with my grandfather in the morning. We pass by the Stade de Bercy, an 80's modern stadium on eastern edge of the city. "That's the Bercy Stadium," my grandfather tells me. "They have sporting events there, but also concerts and stuff like that." "Have you ever been?" I ask. "No," he tells me, "but your grandmother was there once. To see an Elton John concert."

I go to a museum, and then I try and find some used clothes. Mostly I'm looking for Le Coq Sportif stuff, but it seems impossible to find. I go into one used clothing store where this rastafarian North African is listening to The Game (featuring 50 Cent)'s "How We Do". When the song ends, it starts right back up again. It plays at least three times before I leave.

In a newscast about the protests in Lebanon over the Syrian occupation, I notice someone is holding a sign that reads (in English) "Papa Don't Preach/I'm in Trouble Deep."

After dinner, we watch a movie about a guy whose about to get fired and so he makes his boss think that he's gay. The rest of the movie is about what you would think. "Gerard Depardieu is really funny in this one," my grandparents say, "don't you think?" He is not bad. More importantly, though, I'm starting to get a sense of my grandparents taste in cinema, and I think that they would have been more than pleased with the selection offered the day before on satellite.

Vive Le Worker #3116

Friday, March 11

On the plane, I'm sitting next to Keller, Chris, and Logan, three seniors from "Old Miss". They'd been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours, with a car-trip to Atlanta, a layover in Chicago, and now the final leg to Paris. They offer me some Little Caesars bread sticks. "Do you want a sip of my soda?" Keller asks. "No, thank you," I tell her. "Oh, you musta been dyin'!" she says. "If it was me I probably woulda just asked you for some bread sticks. That's how I am." Keller is studying Marketing, which apparently is something you can study in college, and Chris and Logan are both in the culinary school. "Is it a good school for that?" I ask. "It's the best in Mississippi," they say with a shrug. Something about the three of them makes me really nervous, even though they're nothing if not gracious. For example, when I double dip in the marinara sauce while Keller is herself still eating a breadstick she doesn't even say anything. It's probably because I feel like Chris and Logan are keeping an eye on me. Keller is Logan's girlfriend, and she's sitting next to me, and as if that wasn't enough to make them suspicious I also turned down their offer of a pre-read copy of Sports Illustrated. Personally, I was more interested in Keller's offer: "I gotta a lotta magazines, like gossip magazines, basically, if you want."

I want.

In the taxi on the way to my grandparents' house I notice on the exit-ramp off the highway that instead of a "Slow Down" sign there are three different speed limits. It is illegal to not slow down at the exact rate decreed by law, in France.

Commemorative events for the tragic events of March 11 are all over the television. I think they actually refer to them as "The Tragic Events of March 11." I'm sorry, Madrid, They say on the news that they had five minutes of silence. That's so many minutes of silence. Try it. Right now. See, you already lost, jabberjaw. You could never deal with what the Spanish have to deal with every day.

At dinner, my grandpa tells an amazing story about my great-great-grandpa in Tunisia. Apparently a bunch of mafiosi from Sicily moved into Tunisia and ran a scam where they would steal your cows and demand a ransom. When you paid your ransom, your cows would magically reappear. The mafia stole my great-great-grandpa's cows and told him to leave money in a bag under a tree. Instead, he left four bullets in a bag under the tree, for the four specific mafiosi he knew were responsible. He got his cows back. My great-great-grandpa was a bad-bad-man. Then I went upstairs and PASSED THE FUCK OUT.

Total glasses of wine consumed in the first 24 hours: 10
Total flutes of champagne consumed in the first 24 hours: 2

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Since U Been Mad

Sk8r Gyrl,

Look, I understand you're really mad right now, and I don't expect you to talk to me anytime soon, fine, but I think you should hear me out. It's nothing. Okay? It means absolutely nothing. If anything, the only reason I'm even listening to her is because she reminds me of you! I was talking to Camo Please the other night and he said that the first time he heard her, he thought he was listening to you. Do you see what I'm getting at? It's normal to be jealous, but I really think you're blowing things out of proportion, and I would never do anything to hurt you or diminish your reputation as the pre-eminent recorder of awesome pop singles. Really, she should be no threat to you. If she was really "all that," wouldn't she have had more hits by now? She won AI back in, what, 2002? LOL, right? "A Moment Like This"? Give me a break! It took her three years just to do a rip-off of Let Go.

I'm not going to promise you that I'll never listen to her again. It would be dangerously unfair for me to do so. We're human, and we all make mistakes. We've all got choices. We've all got voices. A very wise woman once spoke those same words! But she's no threat to you, okay? Okay?

Now stop being so complicated (jk's) and call me! You've gotten under my skin! (that's the last one, I promise!)


Last night I dreamt that Lisazilla had a really bad case of the flu, but she was at work anyway, and then Snoop Dogg called her on the phone, and he was speaking really gently and kept telling her to go home so that she could get well and that he would stop by and bring her some soup and then she said, "Muthafucka, just go home already. I TOLD YOU I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU RIGHT NOW!"

I'm Not the Only 50-Year-Old Shithead

"ACTION hero Bruce Willis got some action of a different kind after the screening of his new blood-and-guts flick, Hostage. At an after-after-party at the Peninsula Hotel early yesterday, Willis, who turns 50 this month, and teen queen Lindsay Lohan, 18, enjoyed a mutual gropefest. 'At one point, Bruce had Lindsay's pants down far enough to reveal a tattoo that said "La Bella Vista" (The Beautiful View) on her right cheek,' says our spywitness. Eventually, Willis and a few friends, including Lohan, took the party upstairs to his suite."
(New York Post)

Sorry, OK Tiger, but I wanted to make sure that I preserved this one in my own diary for when I'm older. Incidentally, this is a very interesting piece of celebrity gossip when read in the context of my previous entry. It is high time BW got an awesome Sonic the Hedgehog tatt on his calf. Or, he could get a little tiny StH squeezed inside of a tear-drop tattooed under his eye. As everyone knows, a tear-drop tattoo means that you have either killed someone or served a long prison sentence, but a Sonic the Hedgehog squeezed inside a tear-drop tattoo means that you have either beaten someone in a race, or you have run up a ramp that does a 360 degree loop in the air and gotten all the gold rings!

Hot Tatt

I've always sort of wanted to get a tattoo...but I always knew that any design I picked would be loathsome within six weeks of having it indelibly etched into my skin. Now I'm getting kind of old for a tattoo anyway. Me and Brother Russia were going to get them when we were 18, but we didn't. Then we were going to get them before we graduated from college, but we didn't. Now it's like, we might as well wait until we turn 50 and get the tattoos on the same day we get divorces and our ears pierced. The future us's are shitheads. Anyway, I finally found a tattoo design that I don't think will EVER get old!">I've always sort of wanted to get a tattoo...but I always knew that any design I picked would be loathsome within six weeks of having it indelibly etched into my skin. Now I'm getting kind of old for a tattoo anyway. Me and Brother Russia were going to get them when we were 18, but we didn't. Then we were going to get them before we graduated from college, but we didn't. Now it's like, we might as well wait until we turn 50 and get the tattoos on the same day we get divorces and our ears pierced. The future us's are shitheads. Anyway, I finally found a tattoo design that I don't think will EVER get old!

Image hosted by

Fat vs. Fat

There's this ad on TV for the Bo-Flex starring some major tool who used to weigh over 750 thousand pounds but then became merely obese by using the Bo-Flex. Anyway, near the end of the commercial he says, "I know there's guys out there who ate a bunch of sandwiches and lost weight, but I don't see them on TV with their shirts off!" First of all, we'd all be better off if you had kept your shirt on, so stop flattering yourself, fatness. Secondly, I've only heard of one guy who ate a bunch of sandwiches and lost weight, and his name is Jared. If you're such a man now that you are no longer three men, why don't you stop being a pussy and just say it. BUT: the main thing that I like about this commercial is one uselessly amateur spokesperson calling another uselessly amateur spokesperson out on the mat. YES! Bo-Rick and Jared should totally have a Fat Free Fight to the Finish or something.


Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Snip Snip

It's never a good idea to have my hairdresser, Cookie, dress your hair unless you have an entire afternoon to waste. That shit is slower than churning butter. I'm like, I have to get back to work, and she's like, BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Here are some topics that came up during the half-life of a hydrogen molecule that I spent in her chair:

-The child-molestation case she is currently involved in (Yes, she, not Michael Jackson, COOKIE, my hairdresser)
-Her feeling of being "not of this Earth," her subsequent affinity with alien species, and her enthusiasm over her own approaching death for the chance to go back to "my place, wherever that may be"
-How her mother wouldn't let her have friends or use a telephone as a child
-Shaving lines into my head (She tries every single time. I'm like, "I would, but I don't think it's a good idea, I have a job, and I'm going to see my grandparents this weekend" and she's like, "Well, how about just three, and they could be jagged like lightning? Or the letters TNT surrounded by a spiked explosion box?"

But anyway, LADIES: if you buy a ticket today for Paris tomorrow, you could spend a week in Paris with the best looking man in Paris. Moi. That's French for Worker #3116. Who will be in Paris. Looking goooooooooood.

Bone Structure

Amount of work completed thus far today: 0

Points awarded to Worker #3116 by Worker #3116 for "General Awesomeness in the Workplace and in Face of Dangers": 75

The cast of MTV's The Real World finally went home last night, but it took them half-an-hour. There was lots of crying and "learning" and "growing" and stuff, and the whole time I was just thinking GO HOME GO HOME GO HOME! But this was also a great moment for me, because it was the not-at-all-thrilling conclusion to the last TV show that is actually on TV every week that I feel compelled to watch. I'm TV free for 2003+2! There's still the DVDs, but my life will no longer be managed by that little info box at the bottom of the screen. BizooM!

Death Row 1307 4 Life!
McCullen: Would you get plastic surgery if someone else paid for it?
Worker #3116: No.
McCullen: Would you get plastic surgery if someone paid you to?
Worker #3116: No.
McCullen: If they paid you a million dollars?
Worker #3116: Yes. Wow, you found my breaking point.
Stevil: How many chin implants should I get?

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

That's My Friend, Maroon 5

The Maroon 5 was on the MTV's Cribs this morning. First of all, their crib was an apartment, but it's in this really beautiful looking building that you could imagine would be a famous person's house, so you're like, wow, that's pretty nice, and then they're like "2 Bedrooms, 2 Bathrooms, 100 Sq. Feet" and you're like, wow, that looks so much bigger. Anyhow, inside they had all these people over for a "housewarming" party, and their friends were drinking Veuve Cliquot mimosas and playing Scrabble (after getting dressed by a stylist and having stage makeup applied because I'm sorry, either you've been prepped ahead of time, or you were all bussed in from Barbizon, but either way fuck you). So, then I imagined that this was Saturday Looks Good to Showdown at the Equator's crib and that me and McCullen and, I don't know, Bridget?, were sitting around playing Scrabble. But actually I didn't imagine that it was Saturday Looks Good to Showdown at the Equator's crib, so much as I imagined we were all friends with Maroon 5. From there it was easy to imagine the life of a Maroon 5 friend past my appearance in the background of the breakfast nook on MTV's Cribs.

"Hey, you're hot, what's your name? Lisa? That's cool. Oh, that's my friend Adam. Yeah. Yeah he's in Maroon 5. Whatever, they don't suck. I mean they kind of suck. Whatever. Bitch. Ever hear of Trim Spa?"

Then I'd be all like, "Adam, I wish you were in a cooler band, because Maroon 5 cred is doing nothing for my game," and then Adam would be all like, "Worker #3116, I don't mind spending everyday out on your corner in the pouring rain," and then I'd be like, "Um," and he'd be like, "Look for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay awhile," and I'd be like, "I just did, you fucking dick, that's what I'm trying to tell you," and he'd be like, "And she will be loved, she will be loooouhuhved," and then we'd have to carry him out the car because you know how he gets when he's had to many Vodka-Red Bulls.

Last Night, Part Two

10:00 PM

[NB: I was asked by my karate school to participate on a "Demo Team," which performs karate for audiences, mostly as a promotional tool to try and foster interest in potential new students. Everyone else on the team is a first or second degree black belt.]

Worker #3116: So, I agreed to be on that team.
McCullen: That's cool.
Worker #3116: I'm kind of nervous about it. Performing karate in front of other people.
McCullen: You'll be fine after, like, your third show.
Worker #3116: Well, the way I see it is if I'm nervous about something I figure it's important that I do it. To conquer that fear.
McCullen: Right. Except drugs.
Worker #3116: No.
McCullen: And felony crimes.
Worker #3116: Right.
McCullen: Like rape.
Worker #3116: ...
McCullen: "I'm really nervous about this rape, but I guess that means I should just go for it."
Worker #3116: "I've been planning for this day for months, and I know I can do it, but now that it's here..."
McCullen: "I mean, what if I mess up."
Worker #3116: "What if I can't perform!?" Every man's worst nightmare!
McCullen: Ha ha.
Worker #3116: "I'm really sorry. God, I'm sorry. This has never happened to me before."
McCullen: "I promise it will go better next time."
Worker #3116: "Oh, it's okay. It happens. I mean, it's never happened with any guys I've been with, but I've heard that it's totally normal."
McCullen: "We'll try again tomorrow."
Worker #3116: Ha ha.
McCullen: Ha ha.
Worker #3116: Ha ha.
McCullen: ...
Worker #3116: ...
McCullen: You probably shouldn't write about this on your diary.
Worker #3116: No.

Last Night, Part One

7:15 PM

McCullen: What kind of movie would you say that this is? Action? Drama?
Worker #3116: Chink.
McCullen: I see. Is that a movie theater?
Worker #3116: Yeah.
McCullen: It's got puddles in it.
Worker #3116: Everything in Asia is so shitty.
McCullen: It's true.
Worker #3116: There's puddles everywhere.
McCullen: I don't think I've ever seen a representation of China that didn't have puddles in it.
Worker #3116: ...
McCullen: Or, like, a lake. What they need to do is get all those poor people to wear those bucket hats on their heads. Then the streets would be dry.
Worker #3116: You'd just pack them in like sardines?
McCullen: Yeah.
Worker #3116: What would you do with the water?
McCullen: You could use it to irrigate gardens. Beautiful gardens.
Worker #3116: There's no space for gardens.
McCullen: There is if the poor people not wearing bucket hats get to tearing up the sidewalks.
Worker #3116: But the gardens would get overflooded when it rained, because you can't crowd people in bucket hats onto the gardens, they'd crush the flowers.
McCullen: You have a point. Anyway, if I was in control of China it would be wall-to-wall labor camps. Put those people to work!
Worker #3116: But labor camps cost money. You have to clothe and shelter and feed the laborers.
McCullen: No you don't, just shove them inside and give them shovels.
Worker #3116: And bucket hats.
McCullen: And bucket hats.
Worker #3116: You would make a great leader.
McCullen: Hey, you! Chinese lady at the movie theater! You better put on your bucket hat! If I don't see you walking around in a bucket hat you'll be in my labor camp so quick it will make your head spin.

Stage 5

Learning to live with Stage 1 Hypertension, one basically encounters the 5 Stages of Grief as hypothesized by Swiss-born psychiatrist, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.

1. Denial: "I don't have Stage 1 Hypertension."
2. Anger or Resentment: "I am angry or resentful that I have Stage 1 Hypertension."
3. Bargaining: "God, I will go to church every day forever if you would just remove this Stage 1 Hypertension poison from my body.
4. Depression: "I am depressed. Stage 1 Hypertension is the cause of my depression. Life is sadness."

The fifth stage of grief is Acceptance, but the fifth stage of being diagnosed with Stage 1 Hypertension is Fearlessness. As the death has not only been assured, but declared imminent, the Stage 1 Hypertension sufferer is relieved of his natural human fear of the approaching unknown. Example: leaving the gas station this morning, I was stuck behind a truck that was waiting to turn left. After a minute, it turned RIGHT instead. I also turned right. A half mile down the road the truck put on its left turn signal. I moved into the right lane to continue on my way. Moments later I noticed the truck had not turned left, but was RIGHT BEHIND ME. The man who was driving the truck, basically, like if you're trying to picture him, was very pale-faced with long black hair and sunglasses on. He kind of reminded me of those pictures you see of serial killers in the newspaper where all the serial killer's acquaintances say stuff like, "He seemed nice," and "He was shy," but the picture screams YOUR LIFE SHALL BE MINE FOR THE TAKING. So, when he was stopped behind me at a red light I watched him in my rear-view mirror and planned all of the possible contingencies for if he pulled a gun out of his glove compartment and a) got out of his truck and started shooting, or b) stayed in his truck and started shooting. When the light turned green I figured he was just going to follow me to my work and execute me in the parking lot, so I had that all planned out, too. Like there's this one guy at work who always parks his Dodge Ram all fucked up and at an angle blocking the same two spots every day like a fucking retard, and I would pull up and not even turn off the engine but just dive under there and call the police on my cellphone when the shooting began. Then, when the clip was emptied, I could run to the Whirlyball Stadium next door and wait for help.

Totally fearless. Thank you, Stage 1 Hypertension.

That's My Friend, Maroon 5

The Maroon 5 was on the MTV's Cribs this morning. First of all, their crib was an apartment, but it's in this really beautiful looking building that you could imagine would be a famous person's house, so you're like, wow, that's pretty nice, and then they're like "2 Bedrooms, 2 Bathrooms, 100 Sq. Feet" and you're like, wow, that looks so much bigger. Anyhow, inside they had all these people over for a "housewarming" party, and their friends were drinking Veuve Cliquot mimosas and playing Scrabble (after getting dressed by a stylist and having stage makeup applied because I'm sorry, either you've been prepped ahead of time, or you were all bussed in from Barbizon, but either way fuck you). So, then I imagined that this was Saturday Looks Good to Showdown at the Equator's crib and that me and McCullen and, I don't know, Bridget?, were sitting around playing Scrabble. But actually I didn't imagine that it was Saturday Looks Good to Showdown at the Equator's crib, so much as I imagined we were all friends with Maroon 5. From there it was easy to imagine the life of a Maroon 5 friend past my appearance in the background of the breakfast nook on MTV's Cribs.

"Hey, you're hot, what's your name? Lisa? That's cool. Oh, that's my friend Adam. Yeah. Yeah he's in Maroon 5. Whatever, they don't suck. I mean they kind of suck. Whatever. Bitch. Ever hear of Trim Spa?"

Then I'd be all like, "Adam, I wish you were in a cooler band, because Maroon 5 cred is doing nothing for my game," and then Adam would be all like, "Worker #3116, I don't mind spending everyday out on your corner in the pouring rain," and then I'd be like, "Um," and he'd be like, "Look for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay awhile," and I'd be like, "I just did, you fucking dick, that's what I'm trying to tell you," and he'd be like, "And she will be loved, she will be loooouhuhved," and then we'd have to carry him out the car because you know how he gets when he's had to many Vodka-Red Bulls.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Songs (Gimme Some)

I was working on this analysis of Trick Daddy's latest single, "Sugar (Gimme Some)" this weekend, in which I argue that one cannot even speak the line "You look like...the top part of a peach cobbler," without gold-plated fronts for your teeth. I'd sent this analysis to Clown Coffee for his opinion and he said that he took umbrage with that argument because he thought that he could sing it and make it sound good. Then, in this tremulous off-key voice he started singing, "You look peach cobbler...golden and crispy..."

You know how sometimes you think you can do something but it turns out you really, really can't?



There was an article in yesterday's New York Times Magazine about Beck, and about how he is a Scientologist. Reading it kind of made me feel like Andy Richter in that one episode of Andy Richter Controls the Universe—No, not that one, the other one. Yes, the only other one—where the woman he's dating turns out to be a raging anti-semite. Beck is married to Giovanni Ribisi's twin sister, which when the fuck did that happen, and they have a baby which megaditto, and he's into a fucking cult alien voodoo religion. Where it's at is apparently in fucking crazyville with a bunch of talking potatoes and sing-along garbage cans. Booo, Scientology!

I'm honestly at a loss to remember the last time that I had a "fun" weekend. I mean, granted, sitting on the couch with McCullen and Weather Report bitching about what's on TV or not on TV is superfun all the time but it's actually never fun and we do it ALL THE TIME. Maybe fun is dead. Someone should call his mom and let her know.

Y'all niggars kneed to kook up sum kockaine wiff sum baking soda and sell it.

Translated for my black readers:


there was an article in yesterdays new york times magazine `bout beck, n `bout how he is a scientizzles. blingin' it kind of made me fizzle like andy richta in tizzy one episode of andy richta controls tha univizzles not that one, tha otha one. yes, tha only otha one—where tha woman hes pimpin` turns out ta be a rag'n anti-semite. bizneck is married ta giovanni ribisis tizzy sista, which whiznen tha fizzle did that happen, n they have a baby whizzich megadizzles n hes into a mobbin' cizzult alien voodoo religion . Nigga get shut up or get wet up. where its at is apparently in fuck'n crazyville witta bunch of rapping potatoes n mobbin' garbage cans. booo, scientology!

Im honestly at a loss ta rememba tha last time tizzy I had a "fun" weekend. I mean, granted, sitt'n on tha couch wit Mccullen n Weatha Report bitch'n `bout whats on TV or not on TV is superfun all tha tizzy but its actually playa fun n we do it ALL THE Tizzy. Maybe fun is dead. Someone should cizzall his mom n let her know.

You guys need to cook up some cocaine with baking soda into crack and sell it for money.
(powered by

Friday, March 04, 2005

Want a Viper? Like My Onion?

Can someone please explain the Fabolous lyric "Just lookin at your onion, girl, I could cry"?

What is a girl's onion?

A Killer With a Heart of Fool's Gold

I am always struck by how easily I can sing along with a song that I haven't heard in years, a song I might not even like, and totally wish that this was true of way more important and interesting things, like passages of dialogue from Sifl n' Olly or something. That my brain is so clogged up with outdated lyrics, lyrics that are taking precious brain real estate only to be used once or twice more before Stage 1 Hypertension finally claims my life, is depressing, especially considering that one time I was looking through a dictionary and stopped on a word that I had NEVER seen before. "Hwut?" I said. "What the hell is hwut?" I am here using the phonic spelling to mask the fact that the word that so boggled me for seconds, literally seconds, was the word "what". I'm a singing retard. Fucking 4 Non-Blondes comes on the radio and I'm good to go, but I can't remember a single thing that I learned in college.

And this is all that remains of my high school experience:

Call you up in the middle of the night
Like a firefly without a light
You were there like a blowtorch burning
I was a key that could use a little turning

So tired that I couldn't even sleep
So many secrets I couldn't keep
I promised myself I wouldn't weep
One more promise I couldn't keep

It seems no one can help me now,
I'm in too deep; there's no way out
This time I have really led myself astray

Runaway train, never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there

Can you help me remember how to smile?
Make it somehow all seem worthwhile
How on earth did I get so jaded?
Life's mystery seems so faded

I can go where no one else can go
I know what no one else knows
Here I am just a-drownin' in the rain
With a ticket for a runaway train

And everything seems cut and dried,
Day and night, earth and sky,
Somehow I just don't believe it

Runaway train, never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there

Bought a ticket for a runaway train
Like a madman laughing at the rain
A little out of touch, a little insane
It's just easier than dealing with the pain

Runaway train, never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there

Runaway train, never coming back
Runaway train, tearing up the track
Runaway train, burning in my veins
I run away but it always seems the same

A Killer With a Heart of Fool's Gold

Herb was very excited to show me a business card he had received yesterday from one of his patients, who works as a personal bodyguard. What Herb wanted me to notice was that this man offered "Basic Shotgun Training" and also lessons in "Self-Protection for your Home." But what Herb had somehow overlooked was truly the most amazing thing I had ever seen, anywhere, and it was printed on someone's business card:

You have one second to live!
What do you do?

For the rest of dinner I kept pointing my knife at my brother and saying "You have one second to live! What do you do?" And he kept taking at least three to four seconds to answer. I told him that it was too long, and he would have some excuse, like, "I think it was unfair because I was taking a drink of water when you asked me that," to which I replied, "I hope you are preparing this list of excuses for heaven, because you won't have time to make them here on Earth!"

No bees!

Thursday, March 03, 2005


Will you look at this diary!


No, don't look at it!



JADA Pinkett Smith has ruffled some of the easily ruffled feathers in Harvard's bisexual, gay, lesbian and transgendered community. Pinkett Smith, who was being honored as Artist of the Year by the Harvard Foundation for Intercultural and Race Relations, reportedly spoke about gender roles, but some students felt that the heterosexual wife of superstar Will Smith absurdly limited herself to male-female sexuality. "Some of the content [of the speech] was extremely heteronormative," said Jordan Woods, a student who is co- chair of the school's Bisexual, Gay, Lesbian, Transgender and Supporters Alliance.
(New York Post)

College is bad for you. If you are in college you should drop out right now, and if you've already been to college you should watch A LOT of reality television and TAKE NOTES. Is college bad for you because you learn terms like "heteronormative"? No. Is college bad for you because you want all people to be given due consideration and respect? No. Is college bad for you because it offers courses on gender and dismantles it as a social construct designed to keep the patriarchal status quo? No. College is bad for you because you start thinking that people like Jada Pinkett Smith have "worth" and because you "listen to what they say with a critical ear." Look, she could have been talking about peanut butter for all that it matters. She's a clown. If she was vitriolically denouncing the lifestyle choice of homosexuality then I would understand a complaint, at least on the basis that it was an unfriendly speech. But to argue that her focus on traditional gender roles in a speech accepting an award for Artist of the Year (and for what exactly? Did she even do anything this year?) is beyond silly. IGNORE HER JUST LIKE THE REST OF AMERICA. Clown Coffee says that I will never know what it is like to be made invisible, which I think is a perfectly fair statement (the Jews cannot be made invisible if only because their noses would still poke through into the Earthly plane), except that we are, still, talking about Jada Pinkett Smith, one of the most invisible celebrities of all time. The highlight of her career was Different World for Christ's sake. But then, Clown Coffee has been to both college and advanced college, so it's not like he hasn't already been destroyed. Like mentally.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Guard Your Carnal Treasure

We need to clear something up from yesterday: Game didn't leave G-Unit. Game and 50 Cents did not have a mutual disagreement that resulted in the amicable dissolution of their partnership. 50 Cents kicked Game out. Okay? Okay! And if you want to understand how serious Game's breach of confidence was, you need only look to 50 Cents's major label debut, Get Rich or Die Tryin', and the track "If I Can't":

Niggaz don't rob me they know I'm down to die for my chain

As you ALL know, when one enters a posse, one is given a gold chain to represent one's crew, and as 50 Cents is here expressing, nothing can separate you from that chain because it is a symbol of your place in the world. It is a chain, it is easily replaceable, but the meaning behind that chain must be guarded like Kate Bosworth's carnal treasure, which brings us to last night.

I got home from the gym thinking I would have some dinner, and then do some reading or some writing, but HBO, or Hell's Box Office, sucked me into its evil clutches by airing Win a Date with Tad Hamilton. This movie is very insidious because it opens with numerous scenes featuring Topher Grace, who has very good delivery even of only moderately funny lines. So then you're like, "this movie's not as bad as I would have thought," and then they quickly excise Topher Grace, for the most part, until the end, so that you are stuck with the insufferable Tad (Josh Duhamel). But there is one thing that keeps confusing me about this movie. Bosworth is supposed to represent PURITY, so, for example, on her first date with a movie star she opts not to stay with him and give IT up, which totally impresses him because HE'S NEVER MET A GIRL WHO DIDN'T WANT HIM RIGHT THEN. But...she's definitely in her early 20's because her and her friends are always at the bar drinking, so she's not a virgin...I can't imagine she's a virgin...but then her relationship with Topher Grace is a tame best-friends-who-secretly-love-each-other thing, so wouldn't he freak out when she was dating guys in town? But it's like this is the first time he's confronted her with another man, which means she's never dated anyone? So she IS a virgin? But she's not...But I don't think her and Tad Hamilton ever do IT. And there's the constantly repeated line about guarding one's carnal treasure? And why is the dad wearing a Project Greenlight tee-shirt all of a sudden? And are rich people's private jets really decked out in that much zebra print?

I'm like people who are trying to quit smoking and notice how many cigarettes are smoked in every movie, except that I'm not quitting, and this is no cigarette!

Also, if you stole my shovel, give it back, because I hate you.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Douche Chill

50 Cent has kicked Game out of G-Unit!

Hey, Game, hate it or love it? Hate it? I bet hate it.

Personally, I totally see where 50 Cent is coming from. He, like me, takes care of his house, but you've got to respect his rules. Game didn't want to get involved in all the "beefs" 50 is starting on the track "Piggy Bank," off The Massacre. He's got it out for Fat Joe, Jadakiss, Nas, and a whole bunch of other people who are not representing in the way that 50 believes responsible rappers should represent. Game said he might even record a track with Nas! WTF Game? If you're down with G-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-Unit that means beefs and all. Anyway, he's out. You know what they alway say: lucrative contracts with platinum recording artists and their entourages: easy come easy g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-go.

In tangentially and barely relevant news, Sway interviewed 50 Cent on the MTVs last night (also: Sway. Officially worst vee-jay of all time. You can totally buy those rastafarian hats with the fake dreads sewn right in down on St. Mark's) and 50 Cent had a good quote. He said, "You know, these artists who say 'I just make music for myself.' If that's true, you should keep that shit at home and listen to it on your headphones." Ha ha. Good job, 50 Cent. You are gully to the max!

Hear me now!

You Won't Ever See Me, I Won't Even Be at Your Funeral

So, you think you're a moral relativist.

I think that Top 40 Hip-hop is a good indicator of whether or not you're really a moral relativist. Like, I used to think that I wasn't a moral relativist, like that things mattered to me. So I'd say stuff like, "I think Eminem's blatant homophobia and misogyny is not only offensive, but it's also damaging to children. Okay, yes, you can listen to his music and take what he says with a grain of salt, but a child doesn't have the cognitive ability to make that distinction. To him or her, it is the same as a literal story about beating your wife and locking her in the trunk and driving off a bridge. Moreover, as a role model he is saying that to have these hateful beliefs is not only an acceptable moral code, but it's also a belief system that will be rewarded by the marketplace. i.e. Eminem is rich and famous, so if you believe the things Eminem believes, then you stand a good chance of becoming rich and famous as well," or, I would say, "Did you know that on DMX's first album he has a rap about breaking into your house and raping your fifteen-year-old daughter on the living room floor? This is just too over-the-top. It's criminal," or, I would say, "The depiction of black women in Top 40 Hip-hop is purely sexual and absolutely devoid of humanity. Even famous female rappers, with the exception of someone like, say, Queen Latifah, who has been so completely absorbed by mainstream culture as to be politically irrelevant anyways, but, L'il Kim or Foxy Brown are basically latex-bound whores who rap about how many Sprite cans they can fit in their mouths, where Sprite cans are metaphors for male genitalia. This is, ultimately, horribly damaging not only to feminism itself, but more specifically to the work of humanizing and displaying the complexity of the modern black female as a capable, self-sufficient, productive member of society, rather than a brainless, big-assed, nubile nymphomaniac whose only goal in life is to pop a hole in your condom and take your money when she gets pregnant."

You may have noticed, I don't say things like this anymore. (Note to self: illegally download more DMX songs. X Gonna Give it to You is good, duh, but how many times in a day do you want to listen to it?)

Top 40 Hip-hop explodes the framework of modern mores onto a cultural tableau writ large. Rappers tend to discuss all of the things that we're not supposed to: continuing inequality between the races, sexes, sexual-orientations. They talk about violence (against men and women), they talk about the consequences of poverty, and, although they don't know they are doing so, their behavior speaks to the inability of the impoverished to truly escape its horrors, even when they get money (i.e. continued turf battles, and/or the fact that big name rappers tend to waste their newfound wealth on expensive luxury items with no appreciating value so that by the time they are thirty they are broke again.) The way to judge your moral relativism against this is thereby two-fold:
1. Do you react positively or negatively to these messages?
2. Do you even know a message is being given, or do you care at all?
I think I tend to fall into the second category, insofar as I no longer really care. Advanced College will do this to you. It becomes exceptionally fatiguing to hear people from overwhelmingly privileged backgrounds (Worker #3116 included) sitting around gothic rooms appointed with modestly comfortable furniture talking about all the things that are wrong in the world. (I know the argument can be made that the people who can afford Advanced College [and get admitted in the first place] are the future's influential figures, and therefore it is useful to have them talk about the world's problems so that when they inherit the seats of power their eyes will be wide open. But at the same time, I remember this one girl telling me that she was really getting into these neo-feminist writers from Italy who were meeting in underground locations to discuss the plight of the modern Italian woman, and I was just like, "I think you should shut up.") I don't say the things I used to say because I don't believe they are important to say. Right and wrong are constructs, much like Eminem and DMX. Do you really think the latter likes barking like a dog?

So, do you think Cleanin' Out My Closet is funny or what?

Also: I will give three dollars to the first person to provide me with a high-quality JPG or an actual print of a photo taken of you with the Samuel L. Jackson wax figure at Madame Tussaud's. Five if you take it with Bruce Willis's wax figure, and an extra dollar on either photo if you're flipping the bird.