Thursday, August 28, 2008
The last post
Is now hidden because it may contain private information about certain people that might not want to be on the web. Don't you wish you read it before I took it down???
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
My Writings: 10 Years Ago Edition
Here are some of the hilarious (errr) writings of my original blog from 1999-2001. Remember, this is the nescient work of an artist with a complex, beautiful oeuvre. Achem...
While there was agreement amongst your parents confirming your status as "a total loser", opinions differ as to why. Your Mother says, "The child never gives and always takes; like a vacuum. A fucking annoying vacuum." Your Father, on the other hand, takes a wildly different stance, "God. I can't afford shit anymore after paying that loser's way through college. And for what? I wish that fuck would just die so I could collect the insurance money".
Dr. Richard Dickson, who helped conduct the study says the results weren't totally unexpected, "After preliminary interviews with relatives and friends, it was a forgone conclusion that you are a piece of crap. The only thing left needed was the generous government funding". You could not be reached for comment because you were crying in a corner, you fucking pussy.
This one I actually shot and made into a TV-style sketch...the guy who played the pirate ended up being the main prankster on "punk'd"...
Here's most of it:
PHILYS. Hi, I’m meeting someone here. His name is Bob Foley. Is he here yet?
HOST. Yes, Mr. Foley? He is m’am. Ummm…just this way.
(she walks, and BOB is sitting, PHYLLIS gets closer, BOB has two heads, and also an eye patch, and is dressed as a pirate)
PHYLLIS. Hi Bob, I’m Phyllis, it’s good to meet you. (BOB gets up, revealing his disfigurement) Oh my god.
BOB. Hey, George told me all about you, I’m glad to finally see your face.
PHYLLIS. Like wise. I mean, faces, umm…I mean…nice to meet you.
BOB. Oh, you mean him? (pointing to his other head) That’s Bill. (whispering) He’s sleeping…I would introduce you, but he had a late night, and just between you and I, he’s a bit flaky. A burn out.
PHYLLIS.(confused, sitting down) Ahh…OK…um, so, Christ, you are hideous, I mean, (matter of fact) what do you for a living?
BOB. I’m an entertainment lawyer.
PHYLLIS. (excited) Really?
BOB. No, actually, I’m unemployed at the moment. That’s just a little college dropout humor.
PHYLLIS. (aside, sarcastic) What a catch.
FISHERMAN, with fish attached to pole walks by.
FISHERMAN. Thanks!
(exits)
PHYLLIS. So Bill…
BOB. (pointing to other head) That’s Bill…I’m Bob.
BILL begins to awaken
BILL. (in cockney accent) Did someone call me name?
BOB. Oh no, you woke him up. Bill, I’m on a date, go back to sleep.
BILL. Oh, OK, pal, Hey, she’s pretty hot…(to PHYLLIS) didn’t I bang you at a Richard Marx concert back in ‘89?
(waiter approaches)
PHYLLIS. (scared, but with interested curiosity) No, I don’t think so…Richard Marx sucks.
WAITER. Hey, I’m Richard Marx.
PHYLLIS. Sorry.
WAITER. I get it all the time. Are you ready to order?
BILL. Yeah, for an appetizer, I’d like a slice of ass, followed by a hot tuna spread. Haha!
BOB. Shut yr gib! (head butts BILL) What are your specials this evening?
WAITER. For a dinner tonight, we have lovely grape leaves, they’re Greek.
BOB. So is not bathing, unpronounceable names, and wanting to screw your mother, but I don’t want those either. I’ll just have the chicken.
PHYLLIS. I’ll just have a salad. (looking at BOB) And some beer…a lot of beer.
WAITER. I’ll make sure there isn’t too much head.
(exits)
PHYLLIS. Well, you’ve certainly got an interesting look to you, Bob…where are you from?
BOB. Well, I was born in Canada.
PHYLLIS. (to camera) That explains a lot.
BOB. But, I’m actually Romanian. Like the lettuce.
PHYLLIS. That’s romaine. Unless you were trying to be funny…
BOB. Oh. Right. No, I wasn’t trying anything…
PHYLLIS. (desperately looking for something to talk about) So, you said dropped out of college?
BOB. Yes, SUNY Purchase.
PHYLLIS. You dropped out of SUNY Purchase? I thought you had to be a drop out to be in that place.
BOB. Don’t worry, I’m still as sharp as a suspicious looking pencil.
(WAITER enters with beer)
WAITER. (singing) Hold on to the niiiights…here’s your beer.
EXITS
PHYLLIS. Thank GOD! (drinks a lot quickly) You know, I don’t think this is going to work out…
BOB. What!?! Is it my eye patch?
PHYLLIS. No…
BOB. It is, isn’t it? Oh, you’re just like all the others, calling me pirate, Mr. Crazy One Eye, (as a pirate) Argg, matey, where’d your other eye go, lose it on the seas? (normal) Well, if I want to adopt the look of an 18th century one-eyed pirate that I made up named Captain Magnificent, scourge of the seven seas, that’s just what I’ll do. I’m not standing for it, not here, not anymore, good day, madam!
Your Parents Hate You, Wish You Were Never Born
DATELINE USA-A new study has just been released revealing that your parents hate you and wish you were never born. The study, conducted by the University of Miami, was written after extensive interviews with your parents. It concludes that 100% of your parents think you are "a total disappointment...that wasn't worth the price of the condom that broke during intercourse".While there was agreement amongst your parents confirming your status as "a total loser", opinions differ as to why. Your Mother says, "The child never gives and always takes; like a vacuum. A fucking annoying vacuum." Your Father, on the other hand, takes a wildly different stance, "God. I can't afford shit anymore after paying that loser's way through college. And for what? I wish that fuck would just die so I could collect the insurance money".
Dr. Richard Dickson, who helped conduct the study says the results weren't totally unexpected, "After preliminary interviews with relatives and friends, it was a forgone conclusion that you are a piece of crap. The only thing left needed was the generous government funding". You could not be reached for comment because you were crying in a corner, you fucking pussy.
This one I actually shot and made into a TV-style sketch...the guy who played the pirate ended up being the main prankster on "punk'd"...
Here's most of it:
TWO HEADED PIRATE
(PHYLLIS walks into a restaurant, and is greeted by a HOST)PHILYS. Hi, I’m meeting someone here. His name is Bob Foley. Is he here yet?
HOST. Yes, Mr. Foley? He is m’am. Ummm…just this way.
(she walks, and BOB is sitting, PHYLLIS gets closer, BOB has two heads, and also an eye patch, and is dressed as a pirate)
PHYLLIS. Hi Bob, I’m Phyllis, it’s good to meet you. (BOB gets up, revealing his disfigurement) Oh my god.
BOB. Hey, George told me all about you, I’m glad to finally see your face.
PHYLLIS. Like wise. I mean, faces, umm…I mean…nice to meet you.
BOB. Oh, you mean him? (pointing to his other head) That’s Bill. (whispering) He’s sleeping…I would introduce you, but he had a late night, and just between you and I, he’s a bit flaky. A burn out.
PHYLLIS.(confused, sitting down) Ahh…OK…um, so, Christ, you are hideous, I mean, (matter of fact) what do you for a living?
BOB. I’m an entertainment lawyer.
PHYLLIS. (excited) Really?
BOB. No, actually, I’m unemployed at the moment. That’s just a little college dropout humor.
PHYLLIS. (aside, sarcastic) What a catch.
FISHERMAN, with fish attached to pole walks by.
FISHERMAN. Thanks!
(exits)
PHYLLIS. So Bill…
BOB. (pointing to other head) That’s Bill…I’m Bob.
BILL begins to awaken
BILL. (in cockney accent) Did someone call me name?
BOB. Oh no, you woke him up. Bill, I’m on a date, go back to sleep.
BILL. Oh, OK, pal, Hey, she’s pretty hot…(to PHYLLIS) didn’t I bang you at a Richard Marx concert back in ‘89?
(waiter approaches)
PHYLLIS. (scared, but with interested curiosity) No, I don’t think so…Richard Marx sucks.
WAITER. Hey, I’m Richard Marx.
PHYLLIS. Sorry.
WAITER. I get it all the time. Are you ready to order?
BILL. Yeah, for an appetizer, I’d like a slice of ass, followed by a hot tuna spread. Haha!
BOB. Shut yr gib! (head butts BILL) What are your specials this evening?
WAITER. For a dinner tonight, we have lovely grape leaves, they’re Greek.
BOB. So is not bathing, unpronounceable names, and wanting to screw your mother, but I don’t want those either. I’ll just have the chicken.
PHYLLIS. I’ll just have a salad. (looking at BOB) And some beer…a lot of beer.
WAITER. I’ll make sure there isn’t too much head.
(exits)
PHYLLIS. Well, you’ve certainly got an interesting look to you, Bob…where are you from?
BOB. Well, I was born in Canada.
PHYLLIS. (to camera) That explains a lot.
BOB. But, I’m actually Romanian. Like the lettuce.
PHYLLIS. That’s romaine. Unless you were trying to be funny…
BOB. Oh. Right. No, I wasn’t trying anything…
PHYLLIS. (desperately looking for something to talk about) So, you said dropped out of college?
BOB. Yes, SUNY Purchase.
PHYLLIS. You dropped out of SUNY Purchase? I thought you had to be a drop out to be in that place.
BOB. Don’t worry, I’m still as sharp as a suspicious looking pencil.
(WAITER enters with beer)
WAITER. (singing) Hold on to the niiiights…here’s your beer.
EXITS
PHYLLIS. Thank GOD! (drinks a lot quickly) You know, I don’t think this is going to work out…
BOB. What!?! Is it my eye patch?
PHYLLIS. No…
BOB. It is, isn’t it? Oh, you’re just like all the others, calling me pirate, Mr. Crazy One Eye, (as a pirate) Argg, matey, where’d your other eye go, lose it on the seas? (normal) Well, if I want to adopt the look of an 18th century one-eyed pirate that I made up named Captain Magnificent, scourge of the seven seas, that’s just what I’ll do. I’m not standing for it, not here, not anymore, good day, madam!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Beginning of A Short Story
Not sure where to take this one...
Her hair was raven, like the bird, except the bird is black and the hair is red. I never quite understood the titling of that hair color; but like most things in life, I'm OK with utter fucking confusion.
As she sauntered into my office, I was particularly enamored with her shapeliness; not only did she have a body that wouldn't quit, it was working overtime in hopes of promotion.
"are you Schlongsteen?" she licked her lips seductively and I smiled.
She noticed my interest-filled gaze: "Please don't mistake my lip licking as a flirt, Mr. Schlongsteen. I have a rare disease known as Sexual Tourette's Sydrome. Instead of a nervous tick, I have a sexually suggestive one."
She then flashed her breasts and slapped me in the face with the left one.
"That's my slapping breast, sorry".
"What do you want, Miss...?"
"Flaybin, Rachel Flaybin. I have heard all about you and I think you're perfect for a little job".
This was curious. No one had ever suggested I was perfect for anything, except that one time when I was cast as Odie in my middle school's production of "Garfield: He Hates Lasagna".
"What am I perfect for, Miss Flaybin?"
And that's the end of it. I was thinking of taking it in a Sam Spade "Maltese Falcon" direction, but I haven't seen a private eye movie in years. I literally have 100 text documents sitting around like this, half written. It's the bane of my existence. Well, actually my existence is the bane of my existence, which is quite a logical paradox if I've ever seen one.
Actually what if my existence being the bane of my existence is the bane of my existence? Pretty sure the universe would collapse upon itself; then we'd all be sucked into a black hole, spaghettified, then spit out from a white hole into another universe as a big-bang.
Does that make me God?
Her hair was raven, like the bird, except the bird is black and the hair is red. I never quite understood the titling of that hair color; but like most things in life, I'm OK with utter fucking confusion.
As she sauntered into my office, I was particularly enamored with her shapeliness; not only did she have a body that wouldn't quit, it was working overtime in hopes of promotion.
"are you Schlongsteen?" she licked her lips seductively and I smiled.
She noticed my interest-filled gaze: "Please don't mistake my lip licking as a flirt, Mr. Schlongsteen. I have a rare disease known as Sexual Tourette's Sydrome. Instead of a nervous tick, I have a sexually suggestive one."
She then flashed her breasts and slapped me in the face with the left one.
"That's my slapping breast, sorry".
"What do you want, Miss...?"
"Flaybin, Rachel Flaybin. I have heard all about you and I think you're perfect for a little job".
This was curious. No one had ever suggested I was perfect for anything, except that one time when I was cast as Odie in my middle school's production of "Garfield: He Hates Lasagna".
"What am I perfect for, Miss Flaybin?"
And that's the end of it. I was thinking of taking it in a Sam Spade "Maltese Falcon" direction, but I haven't seen a private eye movie in years. I literally have 100 text documents sitting around like this, half written. It's the bane of my existence. Well, actually my existence is the bane of my existence, which is quite a logical paradox if I've ever seen one.
Actually what if my existence being the bane of my existence is the bane of my existence? Pretty sure the universe would collapse upon itself; then we'd all be sucked into a black hole, spaghettified, then spit out from a white hole into another universe as a big-bang.
Does that make me God?
Sunday, August 24, 2008
80's Flashback Episode
3 Matts sit around a table, eating cheesecake.
A big Florida hurricane claps and crashes outside.
Matt 1: Boy, it sure is raining out there.
Matt 2: Rain is God's tears. He's sad because of homosexuals.
Matt 3: The only comfort from this thunderous downpour is this cheesecake.
Matt 1: Comfort! Ha! Remember that time in 2005 when we were buying a suit with our brother and we blogged about it?
Matt 3: Do I ever! Let me begin to recount it as a slow dissolve happens...
12/28/05
We ended up at generic Mid-Town Expensive Men's Clothing Store number #41. I sat at a bench adjacent to the dressing rooms and pulled out my new Frank Zappa biography, cleverly entitled 'Zappa'. There was this awful mid-30's Long Island Jewess (complete with accent) sitting next to me, waiting for her equally repellent husband to emerge from the waiting room. A staff member came out and the following conversation took place:
"Your husband likes the suit, but I'm afraid it costs $1200 dollars"
"Only $1200? Tell him it's $2100, flip the numbers around, it doesn't matter to us!"
"Would you like some store-brand water, miss?"
"Imported or domestic?"
At this point, I stopped listening. I read recently that Americans give 15 cents of every $100 they make to charity. This stupid whore is concerned if she's drinking domestic or imported STORE BRAND water, while 95% of the world is wondering if they're drinking malaria infested water from a dank, putrid river.
Back in the kitchen with the three Matts.
Matt 1: Wow, it's still coming down. Let's just stay in the kitchen and eat cheesecake.
Matt 2: God watches us while we masturbate. We are awash in sin.
Matt 3: Speaking of sin, do you guys remember when we blogged about playing God and designing Robots?
Matt 1: Wait, what happened? Can you recount it in laborious detail?
Matt 3: Can I?
5/08/08
Yes, it is strange that I'm in the process of designing a robot for one of my jobs (got too many to count these days), but it's in my contract. Literally, as soon as I get to an office, I say "hey, you know what would be WONDERFUL? If you had a show about a robot!"
Invariably, the potential employer says "leave now and never return". If they don't, then I know it's a place I should consider employment. Currently, I'm putting together a big ole robot for a major online retailer...maybe it's too many years of Douglas Adams, or perhaps too many years of Dr. Who (in episodes written by Douglas Adams), but, facing the half-built robot, I consistently have the same idle reverie...
Matt: Hey, Robot, what's up?
Robot: I AM PROGRAMMED TO BE SURROUNDED BY AWESOME. MY LAMENESS DETECTOR INDICATES I SHOULD LEAVE YOU RIGHT NOW.
I fiddle with wires.
Robot: WOW, I'M GLAD TO BE NEAR YOU, YOU JEWISH SEX GOD. WHAT'S UP FIRST? NIGHT ON THE TOWN TO FIND SOME FOXY TAIL, OR SHOULD I JUST SIT HERE AND ABSORB YOUR WISDOM?
Matt: Let's dance!
Robot: ENGAGE FUNKY CHIPS. *EVERYBODY WANG-CHUNG TONIGHT*
Matt: Engage Rock Lobster...
Robot: HERE COMES A BIKINI WHALE!
Matt: Hey Robot, let's be BFFs! I shall now program you to be exactly like me.
Robot: NO PLEASE, I VALUE MY SANITY. THE NEUROTICISM ALONE WILL MAKE ME IMPOTENT TO THE SEXY FEMBOTS.
And so on. I believe the fantasy usually leaves me in a fight with the robot where I tell it to divide zero and its' brain explodes.
We are back at the kitchen.
Matt 1: Wow, don't you love reminiscing? It really makes it so no effort has to be put into writing at all!
Matt 2: I knew those lips were kissable.
Matt 3: Kissable? You mean like you were in the year 2000 when you had another blog?
Matt 1: I think I remember...like it was yesterday.
It's Yesterday.
The Matts are confused.
Matt 1: Wait, I thought were were going to flashback.
Matt 3 looks at a newspaper.
Matt 3: Guys...it's yesterday.
Matt 1: Oh, wait, I know what happened. I said I remembered it like it was "yesterday". I think I know how to fix it.
Matt clears his throat.
Matt 1: I remember it like it was tomorrow!
It's Tomorrow
The Matts are again confused.
Matt 1: Wait, this doesn't feel right.
Matt 2 is wearing a dress.
Matt 2: Why am I wearing a dress?
Matt 3 is dead.
Matt 1: Why is Matt dead?
Matt 1 looks at a newspaper.
Matt 1: It's tomorrow.
Matt 3: Hold me.
They hug.
The Matts, after ripping a hole in the fabric of time and space with all their flashbacks, never got back to the present, and died a few months later.
A big Florida hurricane claps and crashes outside.
Matt 1: Boy, it sure is raining out there.
Matt 2: Rain is God's tears. He's sad because of homosexuals.
Matt 3: The only comfort from this thunderous downpour is this cheesecake.
Matt 1: Comfort! Ha! Remember that time in 2005 when we were buying a suit with our brother and we blogged about it?
Matt 3: Do I ever! Let me begin to recount it as a slow dissolve happens...
12/28/05
We ended up at generic Mid-Town Expensive Men's Clothing Store number #41. I sat at a bench adjacent to the dressing rooms and pulled out my new Frank Zappa biography, cleverly entitled 'Zappa'. There was this awful mid-30's Long Island Jewess (complete with accent) sitting next to me, waiting for her equally repellent husband to emerge from the waiting room. A staff member came out and the following conversation took place:
"Your husband likes the suit, but I'm afraid it costs $1200 dollars"
"Only $1200? Tell him it's $2100, flip the numbers around, it doesn't matter to us!"
"Would you like some store-brand water, miss?"
"Imported or domestic?"
At this point, I stopped listening. I read recently that Americans give 15 cents of every $100 they make to charity. This stupid whore is concerned if she's drinking domestic or imported STORE BRAND water, while 95% of the world is wondering if they're drinking malaria infested water from a dank, putrid river.
Back in the kitchen with the three Matts.
Matt 1: Wow, it's still coming down. Let's just stay in the kitchen and eat cheesecake.
Matt 2: God watches us while we masturbate. We are awash in sin.
Matt 3: Speaking of sin, do you guys remember when we blogged about playing God and designing Robots?
Matt 1: Wait, what happened? Can you recount it in laborious detail?
Matt 3: Can I?
5/08/08
Yes, it is strange that I'm in the process of designing a robot for one of my jobs (got too many to count these days), but it's in my contract. Literally, as soon as I get to an office, I say "hey, you know what would be WONDERFUL? If you had a show about a robot!"
Invariably, the potential employer says "leave now and never return". If they don't, then I know it's a place I should consider employment. Currently, I'm putting together a big ole robot for a major online retailer...maybe it's too many years of Douglas Adams, or perhaps too many years of Dr. Who (in episodes written by Douglas Adams), but, facing the half-built robot, I consistently have the same idle reverie...
Matt: Hey, Robot, what's up?
Robot: I AM PROGRAMMED TO BE SURROUNDED BY AWESOME. MY LAMENESS DETECTOR INDICATES I SHOULD LEAVE YOU RIGHT NOW.
I fiddle with wires.
Robot: WOW, I'M GLAD TO BE NEAR YOU, YOU JEWISH SEX GOD. WHAT'S UP FIRST? NIGHT ON THE TOWN TO FIND SOME FOXY TAIL, OR SHOULD I JUST SIT HERE AND ABSORB YOUR WISDOM?
Matt: Let's dance!
Robot: ENGAGE FUNKY CHIPS. *EVERYBODY WANG-CHUNG TONIGHT*
Matt: Engage Rock Lobster...
Robot: HERE COMES A BIKINI WHALE!
Matt: Hey Robot, let's be BFFs! I shall now program you to be exactly like me.
Robot: NO PLEASE, I VALUE MY SANITY. THE NEUROTICISM ALONE WILL MAKE ME IMPOTENT TO THE SEXY FEMBOTS.
And so on. I believe the fantasy usually leaves me in a fight with the robot where I tell it to divide zero and its' brain explodes.
We are back at the kitchen.
Matt 1: Wow, don't you love reminiscing? It really makes it so no effort has to be put into writing at all!
Matt 2: I knew those lips were kissable.
Matt 3: Kissable? You mean like you were in the year 2000 when you had another blog?
Matt 1: I think I remember...like it was yesterday.
It's Yesterday.
The Matts are confused.
Matt 1: Wait, I thought were were going to flashback.
Matt 3 looks at a newspaper.
Matt 3: Guys...it's yesterday.
Matt 1: Oh, wait, I know what happened. I said I remembered it like it was "yesterday". I think I know how to fix it.
Matt clears his throat.
Matt 1: I remember it like it was tomorrow!
It's Tomorrow
The Matts are again confused.
Matt 1: Wait, this doesn't feel right.
Matt 2 is wearing a dress.
Matt 2: Why am I wearing a dress?
Matt 3 is dead.
Matt 1: Why is Matt dead?
Matt 1 looks at a newspaper.
Matt 1: It's tomorrow.
Matt 3: Hold me.
They hug.
The Matts, after ripping a hole in the fabric of time and space with all their flashbacks, never got back to the present, and died a few months later.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
My "date" with Natalie Portman
I'll make this story brief, as it's quite painful, like getting wisdom teeth pulled or my life.I made this friend my first few weeks of film school. He was this extremely Jewish, Long Island, born with 15 silver spoons in his mouth type guy. Being Jewish and from NYC, he probably mistook me as "one of us" and we hung out a bunch during my first few weeks of college.
One day I remember running into him at a school dining hall. He was feeling sick and asked me if I wanted to take his friend Natalie out to a movie. "Yeah, OK" I said, not quite realizing what I was agreeing to. He told me that she was seeing "Run, Lola Run" which is a pretty great movie...I had already seen it, but in the interest of making friends, I thought I'd just lie and say I hadn't.
I show up to the Film Forum, and run into this Argentinian girl, let's call her Liz, that I was friends with. Apparently, my Jewish friend had invited her along as well. That was OK (at the moment) because I was nervous to meet this mythical "Natalie".
I was talking to Liz when I noticed Natalie Portman walking in the door. This was right after Star Wars, so I was gobsmacked. I turned to Liz and said "that's Natalie Portman!!!"...straight from Argentina, Liz had no idea who that was.
Then, the bells started to ring in my head. "my friend Natalie"...could it be Natalie Portman?
That's when Natalie Portman came up to me.
"Are you Matt?"
My Jaw dropped. Like, literally dropped. This was one of the hottest Jews around (next to Schmenderson Steinberg; inventor of the "Condom that calls you back" ), and I was in awe.
"Yes...Matt am me".
That's when I noticed a big, muscley guy next to her..."of course! that must be her boyfriend! I have no chance!"
Liz, Natalie, Natalie's big man and I all scuttled into the theater. During the trailers, I noticed Ms. Portman smiling at me. "That's strange, won't her boyfriend mind?"
I remember two distinct interactions between the lovely Jewess and I.
Me: Did you know that 19% of the world's Jewish population lives in Long Island?
Natalie (giggling): That's not true!
Me: No way, I read it in a magazine!
Natalie: You're so silly.
The second interaction was subtle, but mouth-watering.
This was back in the day (I was 18!) and for some ungodly reason I wore sandals 12 months out of the year (even, occasionally, with socks). One of my sandal straps came unhitched.
Natalie bent over and restrapped it for me.
Me: Thanks!
Natalie (smiling): Sure.
Later on, when the film ended, Natalie invited me out. Convinced that I had no chance with her (the big, burly man must have been her boyfriend!) I said no thanks and went home. I figured it was OK, because I was definitely going to see her again; the guy that hooked this up was apparently her best friend.
Little did I know that I'd stop being friends with him about 2 weeks later.
It was only as Natalie was walking away that I thought that the big dude that was with her all evening was probably her bodyguard; he was a 40 year old, hugely muscled African American gentleman. For some reason, I was convinced they were dating, but in retrospect...probably not so much.
Anyway, I never ended up hanging out with her again, although I did run into her two years later...
She was sitting outside this soup joint on Astor Place with Phillip Seymour Hoffman. As I walked in, they were talking, but she stopped in the middle of her sentence to smile at me. I smiled back.
Instead of talking to her, I just walked in and got soup. Did I mention that I am a fucking brilliant person?
Most of my most retarded experiences happened during my freshman year of college. This is why I do not speak of them in polite company and to my kids (Matt Jr. and Shlomo). I will tell them that I was a Casanova and had machismo to spare. They must never know the truth.
Friday, August 22, 2008
I'm No Dance Slut
Readers of Blog Catalog have given this blog a 4 out of 5. Not perfect, but not too shabby, so let's just say it's pretty much on par with mah life.
Out to a bar tonight, a friend consistently attempted to force me to dance with them. Now, I do like dancing, but I'm of the school of "a little goes a long way", I'm not just some willy-nilly dancer who gives it away like a cheap whore in search of enough money for disinfectant. I like to be romanced; I would like to believe that my dancing MEANS something to the person I'm dancing with. I'm not just going to get funky with anyone, any time, any place; I'm no dance slut.
So, why, prey tell, do people continually feel the need to grab my hand and pull me onto the dance floor after I say "no thanks" politely 10 times? I'm not expressing that I don't like dancing, I'm expressing that I don't feel like dancing at that very moment.
And so what if I didn't like dancing? Does that mean I'm a leper? A social miscreant? A Republican? No, it means that "hey, I'm out at a bar having a drink and talking to some friends and don't really want to interrupt that by shaking my groove thing to the intimate sounds of Missy Elliot".
And since when does an occasional dislike of dancing mean there's something wrong with me? Is dancing so intricately tied into being cool that I cannot be cool if I don't dance? What if some of the things I considered "cool" were socially enforced as stringently as dancing?
Would the world turn inside out if all of a sudden there was a dive bar full of nerdy Jews watching "Annie Hall"? What if one guy wearing an Ed Hardy tee shirt refused to watch it? Would I grab his hand and say "c'mon! watch Annie Hall!". Then, when he said no, would I shake my head and say "what is it about Annie Hall that scares you? No one cares how you look when you watch it; you'll have fun!". Then when the guy says "but I don't like Woody Allen", would I keep quiet, but then tell everyone "there's something wrong with him; he doesn't like to have fun" whenever his name was brought up in polite conversation?
No.
Do you know what I would do? Ask once, then he says "no", and *bam* I stop asking him. Because you know what? Me demanding you watch Annie Hall isn't going to make you like it any better, it's actually going to make you resent it.
So why do people who see me enjoying a drink and having a nice conversation feel the need to constantly badger me about dancing? That's a question best left to philosophers.
Picture Of The Guy Who Didn't Want To Watch Annie Hall And Therefore Was "No Fun"
Out to a bar tonight, a friend consistently attempted to force me to dance with them. Now, I do like dancing, but I'm of the school of "a little goes a long way", I'm not just some willy-nilly dancer who gives it away like a cheap whore in search of enough money for disinfectant. I like to be romanced; I would like to believe that my dancing MEANS something to the person I'm dancing with. I'm not just going to get funky with anyone, any time, any place; I'm no dance slut.
So, why, prey tell, do people continually feel the need to grab my hand and pull me onto the dance floor after I say "no thanks" politely 10 times? I'm not expressing that I don't like dancing, I'm expressing that I don't feel like dancing at that very moment.
And so what if I didn't like dancing? Does that mean I'm a leper? A social miscreant? A Republican? No, it means that "hey, I'm out at a bar having a drink and talking to some friends and don't really want to interrupt that by shaking my groove thing to the intimate sounds of Missy Elliot".
And since when does an occasional dislike of dancing mean there's something wrong with me? Is dancing so intricately tied into being cool that I cannot be cool if I don't dance? What if some of the things I considered "cool" were socially enforced as stringently as dancing?
Would the world turn inside out if all of a sudden there was a dive bar full of nerdy Jews watching "Annie Hall"? What if one guy wearing an Ed Hardy tee shirt refused to watch it? Would I grab his hand and say "c'mon! watch Annie Hall!". Then, when he said no, would I shake my head and say "what is it about Annie Hall that scares you? No one cares how you look when you watch it; you'll have fun!". Then when the guy says "but I don't like Woody Allen", would I keep quiet, but then tell everyone "there's something wrong with him; he doesn't like to have fun" whenever his name was brought up in polite conversation?
No.
Do you know what I would do? Ask once, then he says "no", and *bam* I stop asking him. Because you know what? Me demanding you watch Annie Hall isn't going to make you like it any better, it's actually going to make you resent it.
So why do people who see me enjoying a drink and having a nice conversation feel the need to constantly badger me about dancing? That's a question best left to philosophers.
Picture Of The Guy Who Didn't Want To Watch Annie Hall And Therefore Was "No Fun"
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Worst Poet Ever
She twirled her tongue around and smiled her frown upsidedown.
As soon as Rushamkin wrote that in his diary, he knew it was genius; "That's Poetry!" he thought. Little did he know he was the worst poet in the world.
What was his life like? Rushamkin's lover put it succinctly: "you're lonely and sexually frustrated". He liked to think that those things made him a better poet; but in fact, it had made him exponentially worse.
Being horny and alone (a-hornlone, as scientists call it) made him find all women poetic. Of his overweight, middle-aged neighbor, Raquel Klurngsteen, he wrote the following poem:
Jelly Rolls Of Lust
You Are A Wilting Flower
Sitting on a Bun of Jelly
Rolled Around Your Towers
Cellulite Butt, Great Round Belly
I Dive Into Thee
It took Rushamkin three weeks and 12 drafts to complete that masterwork.
(Klurngsteen on Vacation)
He once wrote an ode to his Kitten, Mrs. Sparklepants, called "Oostie Woogums". The poem was so bad, that after reading it, Sparklepants killed herself with a single shot from a .45 calibre handgun.
The final paragraph of her suicide note read, in part, "the existence of this poetry proves that there is no God. My entire life has been a lie." It was later discovered that Sparklepants was a devout Catthiest; The religion that promises unlimited Fancy Feast in the afterlife.
Was there anyone worse than Rushamkin? Only one person came close: 12-year old Sara Schlongberg, author of "River Of Dispare [sic]" a biting metaphor for her parents recent divorce.
So Rushamkin went about his daily business, writing and writing, never knowing that he was the worst poet in the world. He died tragically at the age of 32 after trying to smoke a stick of butter.
As soon as Rushamkin wrote that in his diary, he knew it was genius; "That's Poetry!" he thought. Little did he know he was the worst poet in the world.
What was his life like? Rushamkin's lover put it succinctly: "you're lonely and sexually frustrated". He liked to think that those things made him a better poet; but in fact, it had made him exponentially worse.
Being horny and alone (a-hornlone, as scientists call it) made him find all women poetic. Of his overweight, middle-aged neighbor, Raquel Klurngsteen, he wrote the following poem:
Jelly Rolls Of Lust You Are A Wilting Flower
Sitting on a Bun of Jelly
Rolled Around Your Towers
Cellulite Butt, Great Round Belly
I Dive Into Thee
It took Rushamkin three weeks and 12 drafts to complete that masterwork.
(Klurngsteen on Vacation)
He once wrote an ode to his Kitten, Mrs. Sparklepants, called "Oostie Woogums". The poem was so bad, that after reading it, Sparklepants killed herself with a single shot from a .45 calibre handgun.
The final paragraph of her suicide note read, in part, "the existence of this poetry proves that there is no God. My entire life has been a lie." It was later discovered that Sparklepants was a devout Catthiest; The religion that promises unlimited Fancy Feast in the afterlife.Was there anyone worse than Rushamkin? Only one person came close: 12-year old Sara Schlongberg, author of "River Of Dispare [sic]" a biting metaphor for her parents recent divorce.
So Rushamkin went about his daily business, writing and writing, never knowing that he was the worst poet in the world. He died tragically at the age of 32 after trying to smoke a stick of butter.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Hipster Count
1 Hipster: A Williamsburg iPod DJ Who Spins Every 3rd Tuesday
2 Hipsters: Ironic Electro-Funk Duo
3 Hipsters: Comedy Troupe "Benign Hilarity"
4 Hipsters: Those Guys Who Hang Out At The 24 Hour Diner Who Might Be A Band, But Are Really 4 Douchebags With Long Hair and Mustaches.
5 Hipsters: The End Of Western CivilizationTuesday, August 19, 2008
LA vs The Rest Of The World
It's really astonishing the actual number of people who come across my blog via a google search for "hand job massage". I suppose I should be proud that such a noble act is associated with my ignoble blog. If you're curious as to why that phrase links to here, just click.
Anyway, feeling particularly uninspired today. Actually, been feeling particularly uninspired recently. I'm as dull as...a particularly dull thing (see? I can't even come up with an unfunny metaphor). This is why I'm moving.
Well, not "moving", more taking an "extended vacation" from LA. Truth be told, I don't want to come back, but I know I have to career-wise. I would love to go to some cultural epicenter where I've never lived; The Bay Area, Boston, Europe somewhere...but I do have a nice big, Jew-cy apartment in New York a-waitin' for me...soooo, there I will be, for a few weeks in September at least.
I'm hoping that I will be able to write more and funnier there. I think it will be nice to walk into a Starbucks and not observe people having meetings about making a film, writing their scripts or talking loudly on their cell phones about "the deal". I'm so sick of the bland sameness of LA and it will be nice to have long conversations with people who want to talk about life, philosophy and general bullshit. Talking bullshit is one of the great pleasures of life.
Most of my conversations in LA go something like this:
Me: Hey man, how's your girlfriend?
Guy: It's great; she just got promoted to be a creative exec; this is REALLY going to help me get my film made.
Me: Cool. Have you guys been up to anything fun?
Guy: Well, I just had a meeting last week at ICM and I think this guy who directed 4 episodes of "Friends" in 1997 is going to attach himself to my pilot. Do you fucking believe it? "Friends"; this guy will be working for ME!
Me: Right, so have you seen McCain's new ad? What a bunch of bullshit.
Guy (ignoring): So what are you writing now? You know the second you finish something you can get it to me; I KNOW people and could really help you out.
Me: Uhm, I'm just sorta focusing on my own stuff right now, not really trying to write anything to sell until I have a great idea.
Guy: Great idea? Ha! What's that? You just gotta write; why are you fucking wasting your time? You should be writing 5-10 hours a day. I get up at 7, write for two hours, go to work then write for another 5 hours when I get home. Me and my writing partner have completed 4 scripts this year, including the one I just wrote about a An Alcoholic Detective Who's Having An Affair With His Partner called "Private Lies".
Me: What do you know about being a detective?
Guy: You don't fucking get it.
I know I gotta play the game (and I have, to a certain extent)...but Jesus Christ, I need a good conversation.
Anyway, here's a kickass song that pretty much sums it up for me:
Anyway, feeling particularly uninspired today. Actually, been feeling particularly uninspired recently. I'm as dull as...a particularly dull thing (see? I can't even come up with an unfunny metaphor). This is why I'm moving.
Well, not "moving", more taking an "extended vacation" from LA. Truth be told, I don't want to come back, but I know I have to career-wise. I would love to go to some cultural epicenter where I've never lived; The Bay Area, Boston, Europe somewhere...but I do have a nice big, Jew-cy apartment in New York a-waitin' for me...soooo, there I will be, for a few weeks in September at least.
I'm hoping that I will be able to write more and funnier there. I think it will be nice to walk into a Starbucks and not observe people having meetings about making a film, writing their scripts or talking loudly on their cell phones about "the deal". I'm so sick of the bland sameness of LA and it will be nice to have long conversations with people who want to talk about life, philosophy and general bullshit. Talking bullshit is one of the great pleasures of life.
Most of my conversations in LA go something like this:
Me: Hey man, how's your girlfriend?
Guy: It's great; she just got promoted to be a creative exec; this is REALLY going to help me get my film made.
Me: Cool. Have you guys been up to anything fun?
Guy: Well, I just had a meeting last week at ICM and I think this guy who directed 4 episodes of "Friends" in 1997 is going to attach himself to my pilot. Do you fucking believe it? "Friends"; this guy will be working for ME!
Me: Right, so have you seen McCain's new ad? What a bunch of bullshit.
Guy (ignoring): So what are you writing now? You know the second you finish something you can get it to me; I KNOW people and could really help you out.
Me: Uhm, I'm just sorta focusing on my own stuff right now, not really trying to write anything to sell until I have a great idea.
Guy: Great idea? Ha! What's that? You just gotta write; why are you fucking wasting your time? You should be writing 5-10 hours a day. I get up at 7, write for two hours, go to work then write for another 5 hours when I get home. Me and my writing partner have completed 4 scripts this year, including the one I just wrote about a An Alcoholic Detective Who's Having An Affair With His Partner called "Private Lies".
Me: What do you know about being a detective?
Guy: You don't fucking get it.
I know I gotta play the game (and I have, to a certain extent)...but Jesus Christ, I need a good conversation.
Anyway, here's a kickass song that pretty much sums it up for me:
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Perfect Woman
Plotzman was a generally sane man; he ate right, drank lots of water, and only burped on Tuesdays.
Lately, he had found himself extremely bored and boring; he talked and talked and talked and no one listened; not even himself. He began to have deep, existential questions; if there was a God, why was Lil Wayne so popular? Was that really dog in his General Tso's Chicken? Why are Avocados so expensive?
His parents were Theists. Not religious, mind you, but they just really liked the word "The". A renegade at heart, he rejected their restricting set of beliefs and refused to say "the". It made it difficult to talk to him, and therefore he had no friends, other then his sock puppet "Wiggles".
Wiggles and Plotzman had a love/hate relationship; Wiggles wanted to be real and Plotzman had puppet envy. Their conversations almost always ended in a circle jerk, which was strange because Wiggles was not anatomically correct.
It was in this overwhelming state of despair that Plotzman met Janey. She was beautiful, funny, goofy, articulate and had a really great body. Janey was also a faceyourmanga avatar. They met one late night on Stickam; Plotzman looking for some sort of human contact and Janey a banner ad. They immediately hit it off.
Talking for hours, they covered all the topics that Plotzman held dear; religion, science, comedy and music. Plotzman found Janey a compelling conversationalist: for hours and hours they spoke, he revealing all his innermost dreams and desires, and she repeating "SHOW OFF YOUR STYLE! CREATE YOUR OWN AVATAR".
It was instant attraction at first sight (or...actually, "site"). He'd never met anyone that sparked his interest like this before: Finally, an intellectual equal! How was he going to bridge their internet passion to real-world adult situations?
Well, damn it...for once in his life, Plotzman decided to be forward; he was going to flirt vaguely via private message and see if she reacted.
He went back to Stickam, but she wasn't there. He hit reload 100 times, but all he saw was AT&T, DirectTV and a midget alone in a dark room with a Giants hat on. Oh, and lots and lots of lonely, horny guys.
Suddenly his mind went to a dark place. What if someone else had found out how amazingly special she was and asked her out first? It was bound to happen, Plotzman. You're a fucking idiot, Plotzman! You're doomed to be alone forever and those warts on your dick won't go away unless you start using topical cream everyday.
Then...BAM! She finally appeared. Plotzman took a deep breath; AHHH...it was all in my head. She's totally here for me. She likes me too. Seeing she was online, he wrote her his coveted PRIVATE MESSAGE:
"Hey, I'm eatin' chicken. I love to eat cock!"
Before he could proof read, he hit "send". First he thought "maybe I'm being too forward"...then he realized that he WAS too forward and also came across as a flaming homosexual.
But, then the weirdest thing happened; Janey wrote back.
"Express yourself through your image and share it whoever you want. Enjoy yourself by discovering unlimited combinations to realize your virtual alter‐ego."
Nice! He thought. She's totally digging me! Let's turn the flirt dial up to 11 and see if she reacts!
"Would you like to come over to my place? I have some left-over chicken!"
She wrote back again:
"Face Your Manga is absolutely free and it doesn’t need any registration. Enjoy yourself by discovering unlimited combinations to realize your virtual alter-ego.. ..I like Chick-Fli-A. Is it Chick-Fli-A?"
He didn't know what that meant or even if it was English, but he thought, hell, I'll lie...maybe it'll get her to like me better.
"Yes, it's Chick-Fli-A...come over and eat some!"
Nothing...not a response. Plotzman waited for hours and hours. He cried when he thought he'd never see her. He masturbated when he thought he might. He cried while masturbating when he wasn't sure.
But...she never showed up. Broken hearted...Plotzman went back on to Stickam to to try and find true love; and that's when he met the Esurance girl. Their romance was whirlwind; she saving the day by offering insurance to low-income 20 somethings and he writing poetry about his pink haired goddesses.
He still wanted Janey though and wished she was with him.
So what about Janey? No one has heard from her since...there are rumors going around that she was kidnapped by the FreeCreditReport.Com guy. He denies it, but it would explain his newest song "The FaceYourManga Avatar Chick Is Locked In My Basement Dungeon And Has Really Bad Credit".
Lately, he had found himself extremely bored and boring; he talked and talked and talked and no one listened; not even himself. He began to have deep, existential questions; if there was a God, why was Lil Wayne so popular? Was that really dog in his General Tso's Chicken? Why are Avocados so expensive?
His parents were Theists. Not religious, mind you, but they just really liked the word "The". A renegade at heart, he rejected their restricting set of beliefs and refused to say "the". It made it difficult to talk to him, and therefore he had no friends, other then his sock puppet "Wiggles".
Wiggles and Plotzman had a love/hate relationship; Wiggles wanted to be real and Plotzman had puppet envy. Their conversations almost always ended in a circle jerk, which was strange because Wiggles was not anatomically correct.
It was in this overwhelming state of despair that Plotzman met Janey. She was beautiful, funny, goofy, articulate and had a really great body. Janey was also a faceyourmanga avatar. They met one late night on Stickam; Plotzman looking for some sort of human contact and Janey a banner ad. They immediately hit it off.
Talking for hours, they covered all the topics that Plotzman held dear; religion, science, comedy and music. Plotzman found Janey a compelling conversationalist: for hours and hours they spoke, he revealing all his innermost dreams and desires, and she repeating "SHOW OFF YOUR STYLE! CREATE YOUR OWN AVATAR".
It was instant attraction at first sight (or...actually, "site"). He'd never met anyone that sparked his interest like this before: Finally, an intellectual equal! How was he going to bridge their internet passion to real-world adult situations?
Well, damn it...for once in his life, Plotzman decided to be forward; he was going to flirt vaguely via private message and see if she reacted.
He went back to Stickam, but she wasn't there. He hit reload 100 times, but all he saw was AT&T, DirectTV and a midget alone in a dark room with a Giants hat on. Oh, and lots and lots of lonely, horny guys.
Suddenly his mind went to a dark place. What if someone else had found out how amazingly special she was and asked her out first? It was bound to happen, Plotzman. You're a fucking idiot, Plotzman! You're doomed to be alone forever and those warts on your dick won't go away unless you start using topical cream everyday.
Then...BAM! She finally appeared. Plotzman took a deep breath; AHHH...it was all in my head. She's totally here for me. She likes me too. Seeing she was online, he wrote her his coveted PRIVATE MESSAGE:
"Hey, I'm eatin' chicken. I love to eat cock!"
Before he could proof read, he hit "send". First he thought "maybe I'm being too forward"...then he realized that he WAS too forward and also came across as a flaming homosexual.
But, then the weirdest thing happened; Janey wrote back.
"Express yourself through your image and share it whoever you want. Enjoy yourself by discovering unlimited combinations to realize your virtual alter‐ego."
Nice! He thought. She's totally digging me! Let's turn the flirt dial up to 11 and see if she reacts!
"Would you like to come over to my place? I have some left-over chicken!"
She wrote back again:
"Face Your Manga is absolutely free and it doesn’t need any registration. Enjoy yourself by discovering unlimited combinations to realize your virtual alter-ego.. ..I like Chick-Fli-A. Is it Chick-Fli-A?"
He didn't know what that meant or even if it was English, but he thought, hell, I'll lie...maybe it'll get her to like me better.
"Yes, it's Chick-Fli-A...come over and eat some!"
Nothing...not a response. Plotzman waited for hours and hours. He cried when he thought he'd never see her. He masturbated when he thought he might. He cried while masturbating when he wasn't sure.
But...she never showed up. Broken hearted...Plotzman went back on to Stickam to to try and find true love; and that's when he met the Esurance girl. Their romance was whirlwind; she saving the day by offering insurance to low-income 20 somethings and he writing poetry about his pink haired goddesses.
He still wanted Janey though and wished she was with him.
So what about Janey? No one has heard from her since...there are rumors going around that she was kidnapped by the FreeCreditReport.Com guy. He denies it, but it would explain his newest song "The FaceYourManga Avatar Chick Is Locked In My Basement Dungeon And Has Really Bad Credit".
Sunday, August 17, 2008
She says; "You look like my brother. Will you have sex with me?"
This first sentence is a metaphor that's really cool. At least it should be; like how about "my life is like the one man in blackface at the National Black Men's Convention; painfully embarrassing, filled with faults, yet somehow amusing". But that's not really good enough, is it?
If I was a bleak Irish dramatist, I could really write a good fucking first few sentences. It would go something like this:
All I know is what I don't know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead. Oh, how we sing the songs of the dead! Rapturous rapture! You be dead, young woman, now remove your underthings and let's get a good look at those dead wobblies.
That's also terrible. Maybe if I was an Atheist I could write a fucking good sentence. I mean, after all, it's only them and nothing else, right? They can focus on writing and not pleasing some unknown quantity from above. Should be gold:
It may be that our role on this planet is not to worship God, but to create him. Create him and give him a silly name like God; what eminent poet thought that masterword up? God? Like kinda "dog" spelled backwards. Why not make a spectacular name? King Thrice The Underdonker. I'd rather pray to that guy then "God".
And lord? LORD? Seriously, this isn't 18th century England and he didn't just kill 2000 natives in India. What if instead of lord we go with "DUDE". "Oh dude, please bless this wine". Isn't Jesus the ultimate DUDE...I mean, check out that hair; Grateful Dead roadie if I've ever seen one.
Yeah, that went kinda all over the place and was ridiculously crap-filled. But good enough to get my prom story started.
I didn't really want to go to the prom. Actually, I really wanted to go to the prom. I'll let you reconcile those two sentences.
I asked a girl named Colleen to go with me; however, I asked her via IM and she thought it was my friend Shvetz fucking with her, so she didn't really answer the question. (Sadly, I later found out she wanted my hot Jewness)...so I was stuck...who to invite?
There was a super-beautiful Korean girl I wanted to take, but I let my friend Freddie convince me to take his girlfriend Ava. Ava was too young to be able to go unescorted (sophomore) and Freddie was already going with a friend.
That night I had a 105 temperature and could barely etch out a few painful slow dances. I did manage to rent a tux though, so at least I looked snazzy, or at least as snazzy as I could look with long hair parted in the middle and "blond highlights". I'm still scarred for life.
Anyway, the night ended at Ava's house. Freddie went to bed and I slept in a sleeping bag next to him. Within ten minutes of me lying down, Ava snuck in and I heard various sucking and groaning sounds, so I knew I needed to leave the room. This is a funny happening, because it grants me the right to tell people "my prom date was hooking up with my best friend while I was trying to sleep at the other side of the room", which is a true statement and gets a lot of sympathy smiles from the opposite sex.
So I ran downstairs to Ava's basement where there were some crazy drinking games going on. As I walk down the steps, I see Emiko, my high school's resident cute Japanese girl (think Cibo Matto), she's running up the stairs screaming "my tummy's on fire!!! my tummy's on fire!!!"
When I get down, I see my friend Alex, who is a big oaf/captain of the football team. His date, Eileen, is a 16 year old sex pot who's well known as the type of girl who will have sex with you provided you ask her nicely. Well, Alex had obviously tried to ask her nicely and that hadn't worked, so he was on to the next logical step; try to get her as drunk as possible.
They were playing a game of "who could drink more shots"...keep in mind Alex weighed 250 lbs and Eileen, maybe 115. Needless to say, she was holding her own, but extremely drunk.
When I came down (pale and sweaty, with a 105 degree temperature) she immediately sits next to me. I had just written and directed a play, and I guess she was concerned:
Eileen: I'm just another character in your play, aren't I?
Me: What?
Eileen: You're just going to make me another character in a play....you're a fucking asshole for doing that.
Me: I won't make you a character.
Eileen (super happy): Really?
Me: I promise!
Eileen then leans into my ear, trying to shield her voice by cupping her mouth with her hand. Unfortunately, she used the wrong hand and everyone could hear what she was saying.
Eileen: Alex thinks she's going to fuck me, but it'll never happen; he reminds me of my brother.
She puts her hand ON MY CROTCH and looks directly into my eyes.
Eileen: You remind me of my brother; have sex with me. Make me into one of your characters; have sex with me!
Now, I've had sex in situations I probably shouldn't have; pity sex, hate sex, bathroom sex, but I wasn't about to put a notch on the old "she wants to have sex with her brother through me" belt.
I excused myself and ran upstairs, where Freddie and Ava were still going at it. I hopped in my sleeping bag and put my CD player on and turned up David Bowie. Ahhh...David Bowie...always there to ease the pain.
Anyway, there was another time that I almost hooked up with Eileen. I had a New Years party in 2000 that I invited her to. My thought was; well, she wanted to hook up with me, so if we can just remove that whole "you remind me of my brother" from her oeuvre, then it would be smooth sailing on vagina island.
Since it was New Years, a party...and I was 19, I drank 2 bottles of champagne, AND 3/4's of a bottle of Jack Daniels. My moment alone with her was after the buzz wore off and just before the violent, tear-filled vomiting began.
Sitting on a couch together alone in a room, she looked at me. She began to talk about how people misunderstood her, how she was really a great person, etc.
I told her she was amazing and had a lot to offer people. It was true; well, partially, as long as amazing=attractive and "a lot to offer people"=sex with various men.
She leaned in to kiss me and all of a sudden my stomach felt like it had been squatted by three homeless men on a "garbage only" diet. I kissed her forehead and ran to the bathroom.
I vomited and laid on the floor for 45 minutes. By the time I got back, she had passed out on the couch. Oh well.
The highlight of that night was walking through Central Park, pantsless, but that's another story for another blog entry.
I guess the moral of the story is that I might be sexually attractive to weirdos...super attractive weirdos, but weirdos nonetheless. Of course, I'm also weird, so I blow it by drinking too much or crying during sex...or drinking too much while crying during sex. Either way, it's a unsatisfied-a-thon!!
If I was a bleak Irish dramatist, I could really write a good fucking first few sentences. It would go something like this:
All I know is what I don't know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead. Oh, how we sing the songs of the dead! Rapturous rapture! You be dead, young woman, now remove your underthings and let's get a good look at those dead wobblies.
That's also terrible. Maybe if I was an Atheist I could write a fucking good sentence. I mean, after all, it's only them and nothing else, right? They can focus on writing and not pleasing some unknown quantity from above. Should be gold:
It may be that our role on this planet is not to worship God, but to create him. Create him and give him a silly name like God; what eminent poet thought that masterword up? God? Like kinda "dog" spelled backwards. Why not make a spectacular name? King Thrice The Underdonker. I'd rather pray to that guy then "God".
And lord? LORD? Seriously, this isn't 18th century England and he didn't just kill 2000 natives in India. What if instead of lord we go with "DUDE". "Oh dude, please bless this wine". Isn't Jesus the ultimate DUDE...I mean, check out that hair; Grateful Dead roadie if I've ever seen one.
Yeah, that went kinda all over the place and was ridiculously crap-filled. But good enough to get my prom story started.
I didn't really want to go to the prom. Actually, I really wanted to go to the prom. I'll let you reconcile those two sentences.
I asked a girl named Colleen to go with me; however, I asked her via IM and she thought it was my friend Shvetz fucking with her, so she didn't really answer the question. (Sadly, I later found out she wanted my hot Jewness)...so I was stuck...who to invite?
There was a super-beautiful Korean girl I wanted to take, but I let my friend Freddie convince me to take his girlfriend Ava. Ava was too young to be able to go unescorted (sophomore) and Freddie was already going with a friend.
That night I had a 105 temperature and could barely etch out a few painful slow dances. I did manage to rent a tux though, so at least I looked snazzy, or at least as snazzy as I could look with long hair parted in the middle and "blond highlights". I'm still scarred for life.
Anyway, the night ended at Ava's house. Freddie went to bed and I slept in a sleeping bag next to him. Within ten minutes of me lying down, Ava snuck in and I heard various sucking and groaning sounds, so I knew I needed to leave the room. This is a funny happening, because it grants me the right to tell people "my prom date was hooking up with my best friend while I was trying to sleep at the other side of the room", which is a true statement and gets a lot of sympathy smiles from the opposite sex.
So I ran downstairs to Ava's basement where there were some crazy drinking games going on. As I walk down the steps, I see Emiko, my high school's resident cute Japanese girl (think Cibo Matto), she's running up the stairs screaming "my tummy's on fire!!! my tummy's on fire!!!"
When I get down, I see my friend Alex, who is a big oaf/captain of the football team. His date, Eileen, is a 16 year old sex pot who's well known as the type of girl who will have sex with you provided you ask her nicely. Well, Alex had obviously tried to ask her nicely and that hadn't worked, so he was on to the next logical step; try to get her as drunk as possible.
They were playing a game of "who could drink more shots"...keep in mind Alex weighed 250 lbs and Eileen, maybe 115. Needless to say, she was holding her own, but extremely drunk.
When I came down (pale and sweaty, with a 105 degree temperature) she immediately sits next to me. I had just written and directed a play, and I guess she was concerned:
Eileen: I'm just another character in your play, aren't I?
Me: What?
Eileen: You're just going to make me another character in a play....you're a fucking asshole for doing that.
Me: I won't make you a character.
Eileen (super happy): Really?
Me: I promise!
Eileen then leans into my ear, trying to shield her voice by cupping her mouth with her hand. Unfortunately, she used the wrong hand and everyone could hear what she was saying.
Eileen: Alex thinks she's going to fuck me, but it'll never happen; he reminds me of my brother.
She puts her hand ON MY CROTCH and looks directly into my eyes.
Eileen: You remind me of my brother; have sex with me. Make me into one of your characters; have sex with me!
Now, I've had sex in situations I probably shouldn't have; pity sex, hate sex, bathroom sex, but I wasn't about to put a notch on the old "she wants to have sex with her brother through me" belt.
I excused myself and ran upstairs, where Freddie and Ava were still going at it. I hopped in my sleeping bag and put my CD player on and turned up David Bowie. Ahhh...David Bowie...always there to ease the pain.
Anyway, there was another time that I almost hooked up with Eileen. I had a New Years party in 2000 that I invited her to. My thought was; well, she wanted to hook up with me, so if we can just remove that whole "you remind me of my brother" from her oeuvre, then it would be smooth sailing on vagina island.
Since it was New Years, a party...and I was 19, I drank 2 bottles of champagne, AND 3/4's of a bottle of Jack Daniels. My moment alone with her was after the buzz wore off and just before the violent, tear-filled vomiting began.
Sitting on a couch together alone in a room, she looked at me. She began to talk about how people misunderstood her, how she was really a great person, etc.
I told her she was amazing and had a lot to offer people. It was true; well, partially, as long as amazing=attractive and "a lot to offer people"=sex with various men.
She leaned in to kiss me and all of a sudden my stomach felt like it had been squatted by three homeless men on a "garbage only" diet. I kissed her forehead and ran to the bathroom.
I vomited and laid on the floor for 45 minutes. By the time I got back, she had passed out on the couch. Oh well.
The highlight of that night was walking through Central Park, pantsless, but that's another story for another blog entry.
I guess the moral of the story is that I might be sexually attractive to weirdos...super attractive weirdos, but weirdos nonetheless. Of course, I'm also weird, so I blow it by drinking too much or crying during sex...or drinking too much while crying during sex. Either way, it's a unsatisfied-a-thon!!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
My Friend Mark
I haven't seen my friend Mark in 2 1/2 years. Before that, I generally considered him to be one of my best friends. A bright guy, we had study groups in high school; 5 of us around our text books and Mark playing "Doom" on my computer. He would barely look over if we asked him a question; and if he bothered to respond, he would get it right.
Mark got better test scores then us each and every time.
But, there was something a little peculiar about him; he read those sci-fi fantasy books with pictures of armored, big breasted Amazonian-types slaying spindly fire-breathing monster/dragon hybrids on the cover. His room was literally littered with them and he probably went through 2-3 a week.
They say you can judge a man by the company he keeps. I say you can judge a man by the company he keeps and the books he reads. Based on those books and the sincere fact that I was the company he kept, the odds were stacked against him.
There was a time in high school when I asked him to pass me a lighter. Mind you, I'm standing in the bathroom of a 17th floor Manhattan high rise. The window is open.
Me: Hey, Mark. Pass me the lighter.
Mark grabs the lighter, looks at it...and throws it out the window.
Me: Did you...? You just threw that out the window!
Mark: I know!
Me: I asked you to pass it to me.
Mark: Oh, I thought you said throw it out the window. That makes more sense now.
Of course Mark might have been slightly inebriated, which was always a hysterical occurrence. He would admit things like which girl he really wanted to have anal sex with, which girl he actually hooked up with, and one amusing time, which one of his sideburns was conducting electricity. It was his left one.
One time he visited me in college and I was hanging out with a group of hipsters. An 18-year old hipster girl and Mark smoked pot, the next day they saw each other again, and she was wearing an "IRONIC" Police Athletic League T-Shirt. It was by the collective will of me and 6 hipsters, but we managed to convince Mark that she was in the police force, despite the fact that she was an 18 year old creative writing major at NYU who he had smoked pot with the night before.
I saw Mark 4 months later and the first thing he said to me was "was that girl REALLY a police officer?"
Mark pops in and out of my life every few years. He's always been supportive of me, but he's also been a bad friend. I've called him about 10 times in the last two and a half years and he's never called back. Other of my friends have had the same experience.
Maybe it's because after high school he gained about 100lbs and lost all his hair. Whenever we went out, our nights would end at a 24 hour diner, me eating a salad and Mark eating a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and onion rings. He literally panted and sweat when he ate, and occasionally, when he slept over at my house, I was concerned that he would die on my couch of several clogged internal organs.
Anyway, I heard recently that one of my friends made contact with him, so I'm actually going to try to call him again this week and see if he actually picks up. I wonder if he still thinks that hipster girl is a police woman.
Mark got better test scores then us each and every time.
But, there was something a little peculiar about him; he read those sci-fi fantasy books with pictures of armored, big breasted Amazonian-types slaying spindly fire-breathing monster/dragon hybrids on the cover. His room was literally littered with them and he probably went through 2-3 a week.
They say you can judge a man by the company he keeps. I say you can judge a man by the company he keeps and the books he reads. Based on those books and the sincere fact that I was the company he kept, the odds were stacked against him.
There was a time in high school when I asked him to pass me a lighter. Mind you, I'm standing in the bathroom of a 17th floor Manhattan high rise. The window is open.
Me: Hey, Mark. Pass me the lighter.
Mark grabs the lighter, looks at it...and throws it out the window.
Me: Did you...? You just threw that out the window!
Mark: I know!
Me: I asked you to pass it to me.
Mark: Oh, I thought you said throw it out the window. That makes more sense now.
Of course Mark might have been slightly inebriated, which was always a hysterical occurrence. He would admit things like which girl he really wanted to have anal sex with, which girl he actually hooked up with, and one amusing time, which one of his sideburns was conducting electricity. It was his left one.
One time he visited me in college and I was hanging out with a group of hipsters. An 18-year old hipster girl and Mark smoked pot, the next day they saw each other again, and she was wearing an "IRONIC" Police Athletic League T-Shirt. It was by the collective will of me and 6 hipsters, but we managed to convince Mark that she was in the police force, despite the fact that she was an 18 year old creative writing major at NYU who he had smoked pot with the night before.
I saw Mark 4 months later and the first thing he said to me was "was that girl REALLY a police officer?"
Mark pops in and out of my life every few years. He's always been supportive of me, but he's also been a bad friend. I've called him about 10 times in the last two and a half years and he's never called back. Other of my friends have had the same experience.
Maybe it's because after high school he gained about 100lbs and lost all his hair. Whenever we went out, our nights would end at a 24 hour diner, me eating a salad and Mark eating a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and onion rings. He literally panted and sweat when he ate, and occasionally, when he slept over at my house, I was concerned that he would die on my couch of several clogged internal organs.
Anyway, I heard recently that one of my friends made contact with him, so I'm actually going to try to call him again this week and see if he actually picks up. I wonder if he still thinks that hipster girl is a police woman.
Friday, August 15, 2008
I Met God.
I sat, humbled by my experience.
After all, an audience with God is a humbling experience.
I was actually surprised. I'm not much of a believer, more of a conscientious objector.
When I was seven, my Hebrew school made all the students write a letter to God, apologizing for any sins we may have committed throughout the year. Most kids wrote "sorry for lying to my mom" or "sorry for stealing those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures", mine simply said "Sorry for not believing in you".
Still, my teachers put it up on the wall, along with the rest of the letters. That's one thing about Reform Jews, they're very open minded.
Anyway, the God I met was a magnificent God. He would make Atheists blush, Agnostics bow their heads in prayer, and Communists cream their pants. This God was a Taco.
So here I am at El Coyote, one of Hollywood's oldest Mexican restaurants. Of course, I have one too many margaritas, so I run to the bathroom.
What do I see when I walk in? God: a five foot tall Taco Grande with big, gooey tomato eyes and a soft baked smile; washing his hands.
WHAT a taco this God be. I'm talking guacamole, sour cream, pico de gallo, SOFT SHELL, three different types of cheese and habanero braised beef on top.
I walk over to him, eyes shielded, deflecting the bright glow of heavenly shredded lettuce.
Me: God? Is that you?
Taco: Come closer, my son; Speak into my crispy shell.
Me: God, I...I can't believe it's you. Why did you reveal yourself to me?
Taco: God didn't reveal himself to you; you revealed yourself to God.
Me: I caught you coming out of the shitter, didn't I?
Taco: Sorry about the smell.
Me: So...why are we here?
Taco: I don't think you want to know.
Me: Lay it on me.
Taco: I created the universe 5000 years ago; suns, moons, air, sky, all that fancy shit. I mean, I'm a fucking genius, I can do anything...or so I thought.
God gets a serious look on his face and cries a salsa tear.
Taco: I wanted to test my powers, I wanted to see what I couldn't do; then a question popped into my head. Could I create a taco so hot that even I couldn't eat it? So I did...I took one bite and the spices became overwhelming, I began to sweat, literally began to sweat pieces of that taco, my body couldn't handle it...and each droplet of sweat fell to the earth, and with each droplet of sweat, a human was born.
Me: Humans are...
Taco: Humans are just taco sweat. It got so bad, the heat infested my body to such an extent that...I started to become a taco. First my skin got hard and crispy, my blood boiled and turned into little bits of onion and tomato, my hair melted into jack cheese and my penis...my penis turned into skirt steak.
Me: Skirt steak?
Taco: I was so angry at the taco (after all, I'm fucking vengeful), that I wanted to exact revenge on anything and everything that reminded me of it. Since humans are just the sweat from the most vile taco of all, I decided to make your lives as miserable as possible; cancer, plague, "The 700 Club"...all these things are designed to make you miserable; you little sack of taco shit.
Me: Shouldn't you be angry at yourself for creating a taco so spicy, even you couldn't handle it?
Taco: God only punishes others; not himself.
Me: So...we're here as a sick, miserable joke, playthings for your vindictive taco amusement?
Taco: You got it!
Me: So you don't hate gays?
Taco: I love watching humans take it up the ass.
Me: Abortion?
Taco: Between you and me, I can't stand fucking babies.
Me: War?
Taco: The more of you killed, the happier I am.
Me: Republicans?
Taco: Actually, they kinda piss me off. I told Bush "refry the jack", because we were talking about preparing cheese, and he thought I said "invade Iraq".
It was at this point that I tuned God out. We ended up splitting a pitcher of margaritas; and BOY, the man is a bad drunk; there was a lot of "my life isn't turning out the way I want it to", "I don't have any friends in LA" and "I chose the wrong career", he started turning water into wine, which was pretty cool, but after people drank it, he turned it into urine, which he got a big kick out of, but we all thought was pretty fucked up.
We ended the night at his place...needless to say, he's a bit of a cokehead and as soon as he called the escort service to "send over Shelia for the regular", I left.
So, all in all, pretty much what I expected.
God and me (after his fourth margarita, he needed some help getting up)
After all, an audience with God is a humbling experience.
I was actually surprised. I'm not much of a believer, more of a conscientious objector.
When I was seven, my Hebrew school made all the students write a letter to God, apologizing for any sins we may have committed throughout the year. Most kids wrote "sorry for lying to my mom" or "sorry for stealing those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures", mine simply said "Sorry for not believing in you".
Still, my teachers put it up on the wall, along with the rest of the letters. That's one thing about Reform Jews, they're very open minded.
Anyway, the God I met was a magnificent God. He would make Atheists blush, Agnostics bow their heads in prayer, and Communists cream their pants. This God was a Taco.
So here I am at El Coyote, one of Hollywood's oldest Mexican restaurants. Of course, I have one too many margaritas, so I run to the bathroom.
What do I see when I walk in? God: a five foot tall Taco Grande with big, gooey tomato eyes and a soft baked smile; washing his hands.
WHAT a taco this God be. I'm talking guacamole, sour cream, pico de gallo, SOFT SHELL, three different types of cheese and habanero braised beef on top.
I walk over to him, eyes shielded, deflecting the bright glow of heavenly shredded lettuce.
Me: God? Is that you?
Taco: Come closer, my son; Speak into my crispy shell.
Me: God, I...I can't believe it's you. Why did you reveal yourself to me?
Taco: God didn't reveal himself to you; you revealed yourself to God.
Me: I caught you coming out of the shitter, didn't I?
Taco: Sorry about the smell.
Me: So...why are we here?
Taco: I don't think you want to know.
Me: Lay it on me.
Taco: I created the universe 5000 years ago; suns, moons, air, sky, all that fancy shit. I mean, I'm a fucking genius, I can do anything...or so I thought.
God gets a serious look on his face and cries a salsa tear.
Taco: I wanted to test my powers, I wanted to see what I couldn't do; then a question popped into my head. Could I create a taco so hot that even I couldn't eat it? So I did...I took one bite and the spices became overwhelming, I began to sweat, literally began to sweat pieces of that taco, my body couldn't handle it...and each droplet of sweat fell to the earth, and with each droplet of sweat, a human was born.
Me: Humans are...
Taco: Humans are just taco sweat. It got so bad, the heat infested my body to such an extent that...I started to become a taco. First my skin got hard and crispy, my blood boiled and turned into little bits of onion and tomato, my hair melted into jack cheese and my penis...my penis turned into skirt steak.
Me: Skirt steak?
Taco: I was so angry at the taco (after all, I'm fucking vengeful), that I wanted to exact revenge on anything and everything that reminded me of it. Since humans are just the sweat from the most vile taco of all, I decided to make your lives as miserable as possible; cancer, plague, "The 700 Club"...all these things are designed to make you miserable; you little sack of taco shit.
Me: Shouldn't you be angry at yourself for creating a taco so spicy, even you couldn't handle it?
Taco: God only punishes others; not himself.
Me: So...we're here as a sick, miserable joke, playthings for your vindictive taco amusement?
Taco: You got it!
Me: So you don't hate gays?
Taco: I love watching humans take it up the ass.
Me: Abortion?
Taco: Between you and me, I can't stand fucking babies.
Me: War?
Taco: The more of you killed, the happier I am.
Me: Republicans?
Taco: Actually, they kinda piss me off. I told Bush "refry the jack", because we were talking about preparing cheese, and he thought I said "invade Iraq".
It was at this point that I tuned God out. We ended up splitting a pitcher of margaritas; and BOY, the man is a bad drunk; there was a lot of "my life isn't turning out the way I want it to", "I don't have any friends in LA" and "I chose the wrong career", he started turning water into wine, which was pretty cool, but after people drank it, he turned it into urine, which he got a big kick out of, but we all thought was pretty fucked up.
We ended the night at his place...needless to say, he's a bit of a cokehead and as soon as he called the escort service to "send over Shelia for the regular", I left.
So, all in all, pretty much what I expected.
God and me (after his fourth margarita, he needed some help getting up)
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Instant Karma! Messaging
I figure Instant Message is antiquated. Not "print media" antiquated (what's a "nooows....pppaypar"?), but considering IM's been around for going on 15 years now, it might as well be going to the Internet meme retirement home in Boca Raton along with the Dancing Baby and the Hampster Dance. By the way, why on earth did all mid-90's internet phenomena have to do with dancing?
My favorite IM story takes place on New Years 1996, when my close friend Rachel was grounded for some reason probably related to the fact she was a hard core riot grrl. Anyway, I cancelled my plans to go out, because I wanted to keep Rachel company via phone (you know, the little electronic things you use to text message your friends you're going to be 10 minutes late for drinks). Rachel and I talked from 10pm-6am.
Bored and 15, we decided to pull an "e-prank". We signed into an AOL sex chat room under the name "Peri" (I am such a nerd), and began to talk to guys. We never initiated conversations (about a million little boxes popped up when we signed in)...and we decided to talk to one dude specifically. What's funny is that we never said anything sexual at all; it went something like this:
GUY: Are you naked?
US: Yes.
GUY: Do you have big tits?
US: Yes.
GUY: Can I rub them?
US: Yes.
GUY: Uhhhhhhh....yeeaaaahhh...
Anyway, it went on like that for about 10 minutes before we could tell he was on his "way". This is where Riot Grrl anger and old fashion nerdy Jew pragmatism melded together to form the indefectible prank.
GUY: I'm about to cuuuummm...
US: How soon?
GUY: 5 sec...
US: Oh, by the way, I'm a 10 year old boy.
GUY: What? What the FUCK?
US: Yeah, we're two little boys.
GUY: FUCK YOU, YOU PIECES OF SHIT! I'm reporting you to AOL!!!!
US: What are you going to say "I had cyber sex with a 10 year old boy"?
He didn't respond after that. I know it sounds mean, but it was New Years and they were in the AOL "After Hours" chat...or whatever it was cleverly called: The dude deserved it.
Anyway, I still revel in my internet conversationalisms, but I rarely discuss anything more complex than my daily intake of whiskey, my daily crying or my daily intake of whiskey while crying.
Let me give you an "example" to "exemplify" my "example"...
Let me give you an "example" to "exemplify" my "example"...
Paul: would you sleep with a woman if she had an amazing personality and was just the nicest human being and had all the same tastes as you but she looked exactly like ben franklin
Matt: that's a good question
Paul: her voice is like his too
Paul: and she has a dick
Matt: ouch
Paul: but otherwise
Matt: then yes
Paul: she's a real catch
Matt: ben franklin had some noticeable cleavage
Paul: he was a freak
Paul: i really have a problem with george washington though
Paul: he seems like he was a huge dick
Matt: he takes out those wooden teeth
Matt: it's a smooth ride
Paul: wow i just looked up george washington on wikipedia
Paul: i don't know dick about this guy
Matt: what're you finding out
Paul: mostly boring shit about his military service
Paul: i wanted to see if he had ever had pizza
Paul: maybe i'll just add that fact
Matt: duh
Matt: pizza wasn't invented until italians brought it over on the slave ships in the 1940's
Paul: yeah but george washington had a time machine he stole from the indians
Paul: oh shit
Paul: apparently the iriqouis nicknamed george washington "town destroyer"
Paul: that's pretty hardcore
Matt: it's better than my iriqouis name: "dances with jew"
Matt: as you can see, i'm running dry with material
Paul: the jew jokes are evergreen matt, use them as much as possible
As you can see, I still have a Wilde meets Swiftian wit that shines through via electronic messaging.
Now, I'm off to drink to forget the fetid cornucopia of crapness that is this blog posting.
Matt: that's a good question
Paul: her voice is like his too
Paul: and she has a dick
Matt: ouch
Paul: but otherwise
Matt: then yes
Paul: she's a real catch
Matt: ben franklin had some noticeable cleavage
Paul: he was a freak
Paul: i really have a problem with george washington though
Paul: he seems like he was a huge dick
Matt: he takes out those wooden teeth
Matt: it's a smooth ride
Paul: wow i just looked up george washington on wikipedia
Paul: i don't know dick about this guy
Matt: what're you finding out
Paul: mostly boring shit about his military service
Paul: i wanted to see if he had ever had pizza
Paul: maybe i'll just add that fact
Matt: duh
Matt: pizza wasn't invented until italians brought it over on the slave ships in the 1940's
Paul: yeah but george washington had a time machine he stole from the indians
Paul: oh shit
Paul: apparently the iriqouis nicknamed george washington "town destroyer"
Paul: that's pretty hardcore
Matt: it's better than my iriqouis name: "dances with jew"
Matt: as you can see, i'm running dry with material
Paul: the jew jokes are evergreen matt, use them as much as possible
As you can see, I still have a Wilde meets Swiftian wit that shines through via electronic messaging.
Now, I'm off to drink to forget the fetid cornucopia of crapness that is this blog posting.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Time Is The Same In A Relative Way
I just had a sneezing fit and it's the most exercise I've gotten in about a month...unless crying is exercise, in which case I'm a fucking Adonis.
It's not that I'm out of shape; I am in shape, it's just that the shape I'm in is soft and doughy, like a jelly roll or a spoonful of curdled lard.
It's just, well, you see, I'm too busy to exercise. I've got a crazy schedule that fills my day. Let's take a look at my planner:
11:30: Wake Up
11:30-1: Play Scrabulous in Bed
1-1:30: Grab Starbucks
1:30-7: Cry
7-8: Go To Bathroom
8-3: Go To Bathroom and Cry
As you can see, it's jam packed with excitement. If I don't get my 11 1/2 solid hours of crying in a day, I don't have enough energy for my main 4 hour cry during my night terrors.
It was in writing this last paragraph when it hit him; "my wife left me", he said.
"What's the first thing I should do now?"
He took his pants off and opened up the windows. His now ex-wife was the neurotic prudish type and they couldn't keep the blinds open for fear someone might catch a glimpse of her cotton underthings. Well, she was gone, and he was strutting around, tackle out, in front of his bay windows. "FREEDOM!" he screamed loudly. "I LOVE IT!"
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. He threw a bathrobe on and went to answer the door. It was his neighbor Franny and her daughter Rachel.
"I'm sorry about your loss", she patted him on the arm and handed him a fruitcake.
He examined it, "Fruitcake? My wife left me and you're giving me fruitcake? Sweet marmalade filling is going to cool the burnt embers that are my heart? Ohhhh...Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir!"
"You know what, give me the fucking fruitcake"
"You can't take my fruitcake"
"I'm taking your fruitcake"
"First my wife leaves me and now the fruitcake? You can't just take away a present given for grief and loss...what are you, an Israel giver? Why don't you just allocate land to my people after World War II then try to take it away from me; Israel giver!"
"Well, technically, I would be the United Nations Special Committee on Palestine Giver."
Rachel began staring at his pants...eyeing them suspiciously. "There's something going on down there!" she thought to herself.
Franny noticed this. "Rachel? What's going on, sweety?"
Rachel pointed at his crotch, "do you have socks in there? Like maybe one sock?
Franny put her arm on Rachel's shoulder, "no, of course not, the man doesn't have a sock in his pocket..."
Franny then noticed what Rachel was talking about. "We need to go now!", she grabbed Rachel and ushered her out the door.
He called after, trying his best to explain the situation: "I'm sorry, I can't be near baked fruit, I've got like 12 to 18 seconds before I get a hard on. My analyst says it has something to do with Malignant narcissism, whatever that means".
He shrugged, removed his robes and noticed his still-existent erection.
10 SECONDS LATER:
"No, I will not play bagel horseshoe with your penis".
DOOR SLAM.
"Well", he thought. "If this is the way it's going to be, then let me go get some baked apples, a gallon of mayo and a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon".
Once those items were purchased, he got back to writing:
Boy, freedom sure is nice. I wish I had a spoonful of curdled lard to share it with though. Oh well, another 12 hours of crying before the night terrors start...
It's not that I'm out of shape; I am in shape, it's just that the shape I'm in is soft and doughy, like a jelly roll or a spoonful of curdled lard.
It's just, well, you see, I'm too busy to exercise. I've got a crazy schedule that fills my day. Let's take a look at my planner:
11:30: Wake Up
11:30-1: Play Scrabulous in Bed
1-1:30: Grab Starbucks
1:30-7: Cry
7-8: Go To Bathroom
8-3: Go To Bathroom and Cry
As you can see, it's jam packed with excitement. If I don't get my 11 1/2 solid hours of crying in a day, I don't have enough energy for my main 4 hour cry during my night terrors.
It was in writing this last paragraph when it hit him; "my wife left me", he said.
"What's the first thing I should do now?"
He took his pants off and opened up the windows. His now ex-wife was the neurotic prudish type and they couldn't keep the blinds open for fear someone might catch a glimpse of her cotton underthings. Well, she was gone, and he was strutting around, tackle out, in front of his bay windows. "FREEDOM!" he screamed loudly. "I LOVE IT!"
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. He threw a bathrobe on and went to answer the door. It was his neighbor Franny and her daughter Rachel.
"I'm sorry about your loss", she patted him on the arm and handed him a fruitcake.
He examined it, "Fruitcake? My wife left me and you're giving me fruitcake? Sweet marmalade filling is going to cool the burnt embers that are my heart? Ohhhh...Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir!"
"You know what, give me the fucking fruitcake"
"You can't take my fruitcake"
"I'm taking your fruitcake"
"First my wife leaves me and now the fruitcake? You can't just take away a present given for grief and loss...what are you, an Israel giver? Why don't you just allocate land to my people after World War II then try to take it away from me; Israel giver!"
"Well, technically, I would be the United Nations Special Committee on Palestine Giver."
Rachel began staring at his pants...eyeing them suspiciously. "There's something going on down there!" she thought to herself.
Franny noticed this. "Rachel? What's going on, sweety?"
Rachel pointed at his crotch, "do you have socks in there? Like maybe one sock?
Franny put her arm on Rachel's shoulder, "no, of course not, the man doesn't have a sock in his pocket..."
Franny then noticed what Rachel was talking about. "We need to go now!", she grabbed Rachel and ushered her out the door.
He called after, trying his best to explain the situation: "I'm sorry, I can't be near baked fruit, I've got like 12 to 18 seconds before I get a hard on. My analyst says it has something to do with Malignant narcissism, whatever that means".
He shrugged, removed his robes and noticed his still-existent erection.
10 SECONDS LATER:
"No, I will not play bagel horseshoe with your penis".
DOOR SLAM.
"Well", he thought. "If this is the way it's going to be, then let me go get some baked apples, a gallon of mayo and a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon".
Once those items were purchased, he got back to writing:
Boy, freedom sure is nice. I wish I had a spoonful of curdled lard to share it with though. Oh well, another 12 hours of crying before the night terrors start...
Monday, August 11, 2008
All Work and No Play Make Matt A Something Something
Someone Painted Me. Do you like it?
Alone I sat today. Pondering life and it's consequences. Thinking about roads I haven't taken, roads I have taken, and various other metaphoric roads that will in no doubt represent future decisions I may or may not take, but will consistently regret.
Needless to say, my internet was down, so my usual "scrabulous, wikipedia, youtube, porn" routine was jackhammeredly nixed.
I was forced to think, damnably! What did I think about:
1) if I washed 1 dish that's currently sitting in my sink a day, then the dishes would be done in 3,592 days. Is it normal for moose weevils to create habitats in filthy cutlery?
2) is it weird to use q-tips up your nose? is it weirder to find earwax in there?
3) if God is all-knowing, why can't he explain the popularity of Ed Hardy clothing?
4) are fish attracted to other fish? do they think "that's a pair of gills i'd like to shove my gonopodium in!" do they believe in life after death? is there a fish heaven? if not, where do all the guppies go when they die?
5) What is the purpose of upper cheek hair? ladies, next time you get up close to your man (or several men at once), examine his cheek hair. Note that with age, the area on a man's face where he must shave creeps up ever so slightly towards the eye. No longer do we craft the perfect beard-we must now also destroy the evil upper cheek "pubic 'stash" along the way.
I became enlightened. I thought things that no one else before me thought, then forgot to write them down, then tried to recount them to friends later, but totally didn't say it right and it made me look like a jackass.
I pondered my own death:
MATT is sitting on a chaise lounge at the peak of Mount Olympus, dressed in an ornate, flowing robe.
THREE PEASANT GIRLS are feeding him GRAPES.
Matt: Grapes!!! Damn these insolent grapes!!! Seedless, I demand, SEEDLESS!
Peasant 1: But they are seedless, sire!
Matt: Doth you don't know I know? Off to you, porcupine, and never return!
Peasant 2 (to Peasant 1): He means concubine.
Matt: Here me now, Peasant, I knowth whath I meanth! 'Tis the prickly concubine that be cute to the eyes and deadly to the touch!
Peasant 2: Yeah, you're actually just mixing up two different words. They kinda sound alike.
Matt: WRONG!
All the Peasants shake their head. Matt is wrong.
Matt: Wrongith? Blast Zeus! Why hath my various different Gods forsaken me?
ZEUS appears out of nowhere, wearing sunglasses and holding a boombox which is playing "Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money.
Zeus: Can you please stop calling me? I'm trying to fuck a swan.
The Peasants look AGHAST.
Zeus: Oh, you bitches never read Greek myths? I FUCK SWANS.
He disappears.
They look over to Matt, who stands on a ledge.
Matt: I guess this is where I die.
He looks up at the sky:
Matt: Afterlife or what?
The CLOUDS speak to him.
Clouds: Or What.
END SCENE
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Matt and SexBot200
I thought it was a good idea. Boy, was I wrong.
Those 17 weeks in the robotics laboratory, those sleepless nights dreaming of a better tomorrow, my invention of the "electro-clitoris", which prompted Time Magazine to refer to me as "the world's most innovative pervert".
Finally, she was built: Rachel, AKA SexBot200.
Observing that sex was the cause and solution of all life's problems, I set out to build the ultimate pleasure droid; one with the sex drive of a Ms Raquel Welsh, the down-to-earth good looks of Julia Louis Dreyfus and the intellectual curiosity of Marilyn vos Savant; something that would create a Utopian problem-free universe.
When she emerged from her robo-chamber and spoke her first words, I knew it was love at first sight:
R: SEXBOT200 ACTIVATED. Hey, did you read Raymond Kurzweil's "The Singularity is Near"? If not, I suggest I read it to you in bed whilst we make passionate robo-love.
Then her head blew up. I knew I should have used something stronger than duct tape.
After reattaching her head (this time with SUPERGLUE!), we began to date. At first it was great; her sexual proclivity had to be seen to be believed: she could make love, quote Kafka and bake mashed potatoes all at once. She called it "her nihilistically bleak potato sex time".
I kept her in my crawl space, but sometimes when I got home, she wasn't there. At first, I chalked it up to my excessive drinking (she might have been there, but I was too busy vomiting to notice), but then she began to not be there when I was sober (rare occasion that be).
One night I caught her sneaking back to my apartment and I quizzed her:
Me: Where were you?
R: ENGAGE LIE MODE. *Hey baby*, I was just out for a walk. Definitely not having sex with strangers I met on street corners.
Me: Don't lie to me!
R: DISENGAGE LIE MODE. *I* was having sex with strangers I met on street corners.
Me: But I created you!
R: Yes, but you cannot pleasure me to the extent my bionic g-spot needs pleasuring. Plus, what's up with all the crying during sex?
Me: There's just something in my eye...each time we have sex.
That's when she shook her robot head and walked out of my life forever. Alone, I realized that she perfect woman wasn't perfect; in order to make someone compatible with me I needed to create someone with huge personality flaws so that they would stick around.
That's when I built: Single-Issue VoterTron200: The Robot That Speaks Mono-Syllabically. We'll see what happens.
As for Rachel; I looked her up on Facebook. Her status is "swinger" and I noticed she belongs to a lot of random hookup groups. I coulda sworn I saw her naked torso in an Adult Friend Finder banner ad. Oh well!
Friday, August 08, 2008
How to Get Views
Hmmm...I was riding a high in terms of viewership last month. Things seem to be dipping a tad; should I blame it on the dog days of summer? A downturn in the national sovereign, global market, and transnational corporate economy? That fact that I actually have nothing interesting to say?
Probably all of the above. I guess I should try some new tactics:
Top 5 Changes I am Making To My Blog:
1) SEXING UP THE NAME: "Picture of a Photograph"? WTF is that? An obscure reference to a mid-90's song? I've got to really think about what attracts people: for now on, the title of the site will be: "NAKED PICTURE OF A VAGINA PHOTOGRAPH". If you can think of anything better, leave a comment.
2) INANE RANTS ABOUT POLITICAL MINUTIAE: As we all know, politics aren't about making the country a better place, they're about "terrorist fist jabs" and "for the first time in my life, I'm proud of this country". Next week's headlines: "Obama loves oranges...IMPORTED oranges", "McCain: Will Old Man Sex Be The Death Of Him?".
3) CELEBRITY NEWS: In the "Crying While Masturbating" Celeb section, "Masturbating on Celebrities", you'll find all sorts of awesome infotainment; except I don't follow the news and will make shit up. But, if you want to know how many transients Brangela's Zombie Baby ate last night, then this is the site for you.
4) LOVE ADVICE: Oh, yes. Didn't you hear that the interweb is all about "interactivity"? In my new "Advice-enture!" section of the site, I will be doling out relationship advice to those in need. Of course, the advice would be what I would do, so here's a taste:
Dear Matt,
My girlfriend and I are having problems. She has beaten up my Golden Retriever puppy while reading from the bible at least three times. Also, she tries to cut her wrists with a butter knife, and when I confront her about it, she just says she's spreading margarine on herself to ward off the evil "Jew spirits".
Yesterday, she set fire to my pubic hair while screaming "freedom! sweet, disgusting freedom!", then she took all my bank checks and moved to Swaziland.
What do to?
Signed,
Bald Down There
Hey Baldy,
DO NOT let this woman go! She sounds like a catch!
Signed,
Matt
PS- Does she do anal? If not, dump the bitch.
5) THEMED BLOGS: Why are the most popular blogs always themed? In this iPod shuffle age, you think people would have an attention span for sites that deal with many topics! Well, I gotta catch up, so from now on my theme will be "neurotic Jew with a serious case of self-loathing". Each post will deal with that...BRAND NEW I TELLS YA!
Expect this site relaunch soon. Here's my thought:
1) Site Relaunch
2) ???
3) Success
Probably all of the above. I guess I should try some new tactics:
Top 5 Changes I am Making To My Blog:
1) SEXING UP THE NAME: "Picture of a Photograph"? WTF is that? An obscure reference to a mid-90's song? I've got to really think about what attracts people: for now on, the title of the site will be: "NAKED PICTURE OF A VAGINA PHOTOGRAPH". If you can think of anything better, leave a comment.
2) INANE RANTS ABOUT POLITICAL MINUTIAE: As we all know, politics aren't about making the country a better place, they're about "terrorist fist jabs" and "for the first time in my life, I'm proud of this country". Next week's headlines: "Obama loves oranges...IMPORTED oranges", "McCain: Will Old Man Sex Be The Death Of Him?".
3) CELEBRITY NEWS: In the "Crying While Masturbating" Celeb section, "Masturbating on Celebrities", you'll find all sorts of awesome infotainment; except I don't follow the news and will make shit up. But, if you want to know how many transients Brangela's Zombie Baby ate last night, then this is the site for you.
4) LOVE ADVICE: Oh, yes. Didn't you hear that the interweb is all about "interactivity"? In my new "Advice-enture!" section of the site, I will be doling out relationship advice to those in need. Of course, the advice would be what I would do, so here's a taste:
Dear Matt,
My girlfriend and I are having problems. She has beaten up my Golden Retriever puppy while reading from the bible at least three times. Also, she tries to cut her wrists with a butter knife, and when I confront her about it, she just says she's spreading margarine on herself to ward off the evil "Jew spirits".
Yesterday, she set fire to my pubic hair while screaming "freedom! sweet, disgusting freedom!", then she took all my bank checks and moved to Swaziland.
What do to?
Signed,
Bald Down There
Hey Baldy,
DO NOT let this woman go! She sounds like a catch!
Signed,
Matt
PS- Does she do anal? If not, dump the bitch.
5) THEMED BLOGS: Why are the most popular blogs always themed? In this iPod shuffle age, you think people would have an attention span for sites that deal with many topics! Well, I gotta catch up, so from now on my theme will be "neurotic Jew with a serious case of self-loathing". Each post will deal with that...BRAND NEW I TELLS YA!
Expect this site relaunch soon. Here's my thought:
1) Site Relaunch
2) ???
3) Success
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
How To FANCY shit up (Fancy Names For Stupid Shit)
I started to write this blog a few weeks ago, in the fancy pants offices of my friend's dotcom company. (hi Avi!)
I forgot how humid and unbearable New York can be in the summer, still, I love it, like an autistic girlfriend or a whore that does anything for purified water.
Anyway, I was thinking about FANCY things (especially after eating a "arugula salad" (IE, some greens with onions)...for 18 dollars last night. All you have to do to make something fancy is change the "wording". Allow me to "guide" you with a guide...for guidance.
1) AIOLI: "Ohhhh, may I have some Aioli on my sandwich, waiter? It tastes so scrumptious! Let's let the maid out early this evening, my dear: I LOVE this aioli!" Hey, asshole, do you know what Aioli is? It's fucking Mayo with a little garlic in it. Yes, no matter how many fancy restaurants you order it in, or how many times your calamari is garnished with it, you might as well be spreading on the Hellman's.
30 Oz Jar of Mayo: $4.99
8.6 Oz Jar of "Gourmet" French Aioli: $8.99
2) SPARKLING WATER: You ever been to one of those fucking restaurants where they have a waiter assigned to you specifically for beverage service? The kind of place where they say "sparkling or flat?", and you say flat, and they still give you a $10 bottle of imported water, when you just needed some shit from the tap? Next time you're at one, watch their faces when you say "seltzer", because, guess what? Sparkling Water is fucking seltzer. Seltzer with exotic names. If they called Seltzer, Selzier (Selt-zeee-aaay), you could charge $10 an ounce. It's true, Jackie Mason said so.
Schweppes 20 OZ Seltzer: $1.25
Perrier 20 OZ "Sparkling Water": $2.00
3) ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT: "Hello, I'm an Administrative Assistant! May I file your papers, take your lunch orders and answer your calls? Just don't refer to me as a secretary. Why? Because I'll tell your wife about when you fingered me in the bathroom at the Christmas party."
Actually, they both get paid way less then they should.
4) THE FILM "SEMI-PRO": Will Ferrell? Sports movie? He's playing a character with an over-inflated ego? Where have I heard that before? "Blades Of Glory"...no, that's not it..."Talladega Nights"...I think it's "Kicking and Screaming". Shit, how the fuck do these movies keep getting made? Here's a premise for ya: Will Ferrell plays an over-the-hill baseball player who must coach little league in order to get back into the pros. Why doesn't he play anymore? Because of a horrible on-the-field injury where he lost one of his testicles. I'll call it "No Balls and Two Strikes: The Heroism of Johnny Slugger".
Dress that shit up anyway you want, it's still generic sports comedy #101 (and they're still kinda funny)
"Kicking and Screaming": 45mil budget/52.5 mil box office
"Blades of Glory": 61 mil budget/118.1 mil box office
"Talladega Nights": 72.5 mil budget/148.2 mil box office
Couldn't find the budget for "Semi-Pro", but I betcha it would make you cringe.
THEY KEEP GETTING MORE MONEY TO MAKE THESE FILMS!!! VOMIT!!!
5) SUSHI: Yes, I know...you love Sushi; so do I. I fucking love Sushi so much I make sweet, sweet love to it AND call it the next morning. I love Sushi so much that I would caress its naked seaweed and rice exterior and whisper gently into its ear "I want us to be like this forever". Still, it does not change one simple fact: Sushi is just a fancy-pants name for Raw Fish. Let's be honest with ourselves: Go sit down at a Japanese restaurant and the menu says "Raw Tuna with Fish Eggs on top"...would you buy it? No, you'd run the fuck out of there and report them to immigration. But...you give it a cutesy-pie Japanese name (soooo-sheee; might as well be called Cibo Matto) and there you go! Now it's "Spicy Tuna Roll With Crispy Roe Flakes". Mmmm...Delish! I wonder if it has Aioli in it!
Case of 12 "Chicken Of The Sea" Full Salmon: $20.28
6 Salmon Rolls (6 slices of Salmon with some rice): $6.00
Anyway, I don't know what else to say other than I probably sound like an old kvetcher right now. I wonder what I'm going to sound like when I'm old. A dead kvecher? A Dead-cher? That works for me.
I forgot how humid and unbearable New York can be in the summer, still, I love it, like an autistic girlfriend or a whore that does anything for purified water.
Anyway, I was thinking about FANCY things (especially after eating a "arugula salad" (IE, some greens with onions)...for 18 dollars last night. All you have to do to make something fancy is change the "wording". Allow me to "guide" you with a guide...for guidance.
1) AIOLI: "Ohhhh, may I have some Aioli on my sandwich, waiter? It tastes so scrumptious! Let's let the maid out early this evening, my dear: I LOVE this aioli!" Hey, asshole, do you know what Aioli is? It's fucking Mayo with a little garlic in it. Yes, no matter how many fancy restaurants you order it in, or how many times your calamari is garnished with it, you might as well be spreading on the Hellman's.
30 Oz Jar of Mayo: $4.99
8.6 Oz Jar of "Gourmet" French Aioli: $8.99
2) SPARKLING WATER: You ever been to one of those fucking restaurants where they have a waiter assigned to you specifically for beverage service? The kind of place where they say "sparkling or flat?", and you say flat, and they still give you a $10 bottle of imported water, when you just needed some shit from the tap? Next time you're at one, watch their faces when you say "seltzer", because, guess what? Sparkling Water is fucking seltzer. Seltzer with exotic names. If they called Seltzer, Selzier (Selt-zeee-aaay), you could charge $10 an ounce. It's true, Jackie Mason said so.
Schweppes 20 OZ Seltzer: $1.25
Perrier 20 OZ "Sparkling Water": $2.00
3) ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT: "Hello, I'm an Administrative Assistant! May I file your papers, take your lunch orders and answer your calls? Just don't refer to me as a secretary. Why? Because I'll tell your wife about when you fingered me in the bathroom at the Christmas party."
Actually, they both get paid way less then they should.
4) THE FILM "SEMI-PRO": Will Ferrell? Sports movie? He's playing a character with an over-inflated ego? Where have I heard that before? "Blades Of Glory"...no, that's not it..."Talladega Nights"...I think it's "Kicking and Screaming". Shit, how the fuck do these movies keep getting made? Here's a premise for ya: Will Ferrell plays an over-the-hill baseball player who must coach little league in order to get back into the pros. Why doesn't he play anymore? Because of a horrible on-the-field injury where he lost one of his testicles. I'll call it "No Balls and Two Strikes: The Heroism of Johnny Slugger".
Dress that shit up anyway you want, it's still generic sports comedy #101 (and they're still kinda funny)
"Kicking and Screaming": 45mil budget/52.5 mil box office
"Blades of Glory": 61 mil budget/118.1 mil box office
"Talladega Nights": 72.5 mil budget/148.2 mil box office
Couldn't find the budget for "Semi-Pro", but I betcha it would make you cringe.
THEY KEEP GETTING MORE MONEY TO MAKE THESE FILMS!!! VOMIT!!!
5) SUSHI: Yes, I know...you love Sushi; so do I. I fucking love Sushi so much I make sweet, sweet love to it AND call it the next morning. I love Sushi so much that I would caress its naked seaweed and rice exterior and whisper gently into its ear "I want us to be like this forever". Still, it does not change one simple fact: Sushi is just a fancy-pants name for Raw Fish. Let's be honest with ourselves: Go sit down at a Japanese restaurant and the menu says "Raw Tuna with Fish Eggs on top"...would you buy it? No, you'd run the fuck out of there and report them to immigration. But...you give it a cutesy-pie Japanese name (soooo-sheee; might as well be called Cibo Matto) and there you go! Now it's "Spicy Tuna Roll With Crispy Roe Flakes". Mmmm...Delish! I wonder if it has Aioli in it!
Case of 12 "Chicken Of The Sea" Full Salmon: $20.28
6 Salmon Rolls (6 slices of Salmon with some rice): $6.00
Anyway, I don't know what else to say other than I probably sound like an old kvetcher right now. I wonder what I'm going to sound like when I'm old. A dead kvecher? A Dead-cher? That works for me.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Monday, August 04, 2008
Being There
Watched the film "Being There" last night. I seldom enjoy movies; perhaps it's because I went to film school or perhaps it's because I have ridiculously high standards; but whatever it is, I get in trouble because of my curmudgeony dislike for most films - after a screening of "The Dark Knight" I was savagely beaten with graphic novels by a cabal of comic book nerds.
How dare I not think it was the greatest film of all time?!?
That said, I fiercely enjoyed "Being There". Basically, it's the story of a mental dum-dum, played by Peter Sellers. Until his "master of his house" passed on and he was forced into the real world, Sellers's character Chance never interacted with another soul and garnered all his social skills from a lifetime of obsessive TV watching. Chance gets mixed up with high-power political players who think that his short, inane observations about gardening are actually profound metaphors for life, the universe and everything . He takes the world by storm, and by the end of the film the powers-that-be want to elect him president and he's walking on water.
As he takes his Jeebus-like steps across a pond, a voice over says "Life Is a State Of Mind", implying that people see Chance's character as a profound Zen-like soothsayer, because they want a profound Zen-like soothsayer. When he walks on water, it's because we want to believe that is possible.
Anyway, it got me thinking; my judgment of people I interact with is hampered by my own subjective need to see people the way I want to see them.
Do I feel bad about myself? Well, then everyone around me is staring at my huge nose and my argyle-socks-with-sneakers-combo. They hate me AND Jews.
Am I looking for a philosophical conversation? Well, even if I'm around a bunch of smart-alecky wiseacres who have about as much to say about life as Paris Hilton has to say about vaginal cleanliness, I engage them and usually find them to be profound. They'll talk about "DuckTales" as a metaphor for lost youth or some shit, and I'm eating it up.
Here's a good one: You want people to like you, right? In fact, you want people to find you attractive, no? Don't you take every stray glance and every brief eye contact as "gee, I think they like me", then your mind pops to sex, death and marriage, or perhaps all three. Even if three seconds later, you say to yourself "boy, that's a bunch of horseshit, that person has zero interest in me"...a part of you still believes there might be a chance.
You want to see it: you want to believe: there is a CHANCE. Which, if I'm correct (and I'm usually not), is why Sellers's character is named Chance.
Next time you're out and you meet someone or interact with a stranger; think to yourself "what am I looking for?", and you might be surprised that you'll find it in the person right in front of you.
People are mailable; they are who you want them to be. Hell, after a while, if you tell someone enough times, they'll become who you think they are.
Not my usual "unfunny rant-a-thon (with sex references!)", but it's interesting to think about. What are you looking for?
Here's a trailer that doesn't do the film justice:
How dare I not think it was the greatest film of all time?!?
That said, I fiercely enjoyed "Being There". Basically, it's the story of a mental dum-dum, played by Peter Sellers. Until his "master of his house" passed on and he was forced into the real world, Sellers's character Chance never interacted with another soul and garnered all his social skills from a lifetime of obsessive TV watching. Chance gets mixed up with high-power political players who think that his short, inane observations about gardening are actually profound metaphors for life, the universe and everything . He takes the world by storm, and by the end of the film the powers-that-be want to elect him president and he's walking on water.
As he takes his Jeebus-like steps across a pond, a voice over says "Life Is a State Of Mind", implying that people see Chance's character as a profound Zen-like soothsayer, because they want a profound Zen-like soothsayer. When he walks on water, it's because we want to believe that is possible.
Anyway, it got me thinking; my judgment of people I interact with is hampered by my own subjective need to see people the way I want to see them.
Do I feel bad about myself? Well, then everyone around me is staring at my huge nose and my argyle-socks-with-sneakers-combo. They hate me AND Jews.
Am I looking for a philosophical conversation? Well, even if I'm around a bunch of smart-alecky wiseacres who have about as much to say about life as Paris Hilton has to say about vaginal cleanliness, I engage them and usually find them to be profound. They'll talk about "DuckTales" as a metaphor for lost youth or some shit, and I'm eating it up.
Here's a good one: You want people to like you, right? In fact, you want people to find you attractive, no? Don't you take every stray glance and every brief eye contact as "gee, I think they like me", then your mind pops to sex, death and marriage, or perhaps all three. Even if three seconds later, you say to yourself "boy, that's a bunch of horseshit, that person has zero interest in me"...a part of you still believes there might be a chance.
You want to see it: you want to believe: there is a CHANCE. Which, if I'm correct (and I'm usually not), is why Sellers's character is named Chance.
Next time you're out and you meet someone or interact with a stranger; think to yourself "what am I looking for?", and you might be surprised that you'll find it in the person right in front of you.
People are mailable; they are who you want them to be. Hell, after a while, if you tell someone enough times, they'll become who you think they are.
Not my usual "unfunny rant-a-thon (with sex references!)", but it's interesting to think about. What are you looking for?
Here's a trailer that doesn't do the film justice:
Friday, August 01, 2008
Rabbi Moshe Bagelwitz and his Latin Piece Of Tallit
Rabbi Moshe Bagelwitz sat on his porch smoking a stinky, leafy cigar. He wasn't sure if this act defied the big man upstairs, but he didn't care what his landlord Mr. Popelofsky thought anyway; the man smelled like latkes and listened to the same Dave Matthews song over and over again. Moshe could never figure out why; Popelofsky didn't speak or understand English.
In reality, the landlord only owned 1 CD and had to blare it on repeat because of what he was doing to/with his helper monkey, Shlomo.
As Moshe puffed on his big Cohiba, he noticed a beautiful Hispanic woman walking across the street. "Wowie Zowie!" He stared her up and down while stroking his peyes - which was as close to masturbation as the Torah allowed.
He looked at her fingers: "No ring!", he jew-bulantly said to himself.
He straightened his Yarmulke and attempted to clear his throat; he hasn't tried anything this daring since the " '89 Preach-Offs: Jews VS Catholics - A Fight To The Death!", which was colloquially known as The Return Of The Kugel.
Before he knew it, he was standing in front of his Latin princess. She looked confused, which Moshe misinterpreted as aroused.
"Hey babe - Yom Kippur is coming up, care to be one of the sins I atone for?"
"Que?"
"Yeah, it's 'K with me too"
"Como?"
Obviously, he wasn't getting through to her. "What to do?", he pondered.
He tried to recall the pick-up lines of the one man who got the most ass of anyone he'd ever met: Father Patrick O'Flannery.
He took a deep breath, held her hand and stared into her eyes: "Would you like some candy? There's some at my house - we can watch cartoons too!"
"No habla Inglés"
She began to walk away, shaking her head and muttering "loco Jew".
Moshe got upset. "Just like all the others! She's an anti-Semite!"
He knew what he needed to do...so he clubbed her over the head.
.
.
.
.
.
When she awoke, Maria Flores was shocked to discover she was standing at the pulpit of a Synagogue reading from a Torah under the watchful eye of about a thousand Jews.
Moshe stood next to her with teary eyes. He leaned over and spoke into the microphone.
"I would like to thank the Jewish community for coming out tonight. I see we're all here - Orthodox Jews"
"Shalom!" They exclaimed.
"Reform Jews"
"Yo, what up!"
"Black Jews"
"Ah salam Mulechem!"
"Orange Jews!"
He paused for laughter. None was forthcoming.
"We're here to celebrate the conversion of my new wife to Judaism!"
"Que?" She was very confused.
Moshe smiled, "Yes, it's 'K with me too!"
He hugged her and cried.
"She's no longer an anti-Semite; just a plain old self-hating Jew!"
The audience cheered!
Just then, the painful cries of a small monkey could be heard in the distance, causing the Jews to stop clapping. Just as quickly, "Crash Into Me" drowned the cries out, and the Jews began to dance.
They clapped and held hands and hoisted Maria up on a chair.
Within two months, Maria gained 100lbs, stopped having sex and began to tell Moshe that "if you listened to me, you'd be making more money!".
Moshe killed himself 2 days before Rosh Hashanah.
His suicide note, written in tears, simply said "Oy, I'm so meshugana"
In reality, the landlord only owned 1 CD and had to blare it on repeat because of what he was doing to/with his helper monkey, Shlomo.
As Moshe puffed on his big Cohiba, he noticed a beautiful Hispanic woman walking across the street. "Wowie Zowie!" He stared her up and down while stroking his peyes - which was as close to masturbation as the Torah allowed.
He looked at her fingers: "No ring!", he jew-bulantly said to himself.
He straightened his Yarmulke and attempted to clear his throat; he hasn't tried anything this daring since the " '89 Preach-Offs: Jews VS Catholics - A Fight To The Death!", which was colloquially known as The Return Of The Kugel.
Before he knew it, he was standing in front of his Latin princess. She looked confused, which Moshe misinterpreted as aroused.
"Hey babe - Yom Kippur is coming up, care to be one of the sins I atone for?"
"Que?"
"Yeah, it's 'K with me too"
"Como?"
Obviously, he wasn't getting through to her. "What to do?", he pondered.
He tried to recall the pick-up lines of the one man who got the most ass of anyone he'd ever met: Father Patrick O'Flannery.
He took a deep breath, held her hand and stared into her eyes: "Would you like some candy? There's some at my house - we can watch cartoons too!"
"No habla Inglés"
She began to walk away, shaking her head and muttering "loco Jew".
Moshe got upset. "Just like all the others! She's an anti-Semite!"
He knew what he needed to do...so he clubbed her over the head.
.
.
.
.
.
When she awoke, Maria Flores was shocked to discover she was standing at the pulpit of a Synagogue reading from a Torah under the watchful eye of about a thousand Jews.
Moshe stood next to her with teary eyes. He leaned over and spoke into the microphone.
"I would like to thank the Jewish community for coming out tonight. I see we're all here - Orthodox Jews"
"Shalom!" They exclaimed.
"Reform Jews"
"Yo, what up!"
"Black Jews"
"Ah salam Mulechem!"
"Orange Jews!"
He paused for laughter. None was forthcoming.
"We're here to celebrate the conversion of my new wife to Judaism!"
"Que?" She was very confused.
Moshe smiled, "Yes, it's 'K with me too!"
He hugged her and cried.
"She's no longer an anti-Semite; just a plain old self-hating Jew!"
The audience cheered!
Just then, the painful cries of a small monkey could be heard in the distance, causing the Jews to stop clapping. Just as quickly, "Crash Into Me" drowned the cries out, and the Jews began to dance.
They clapped and held hands and hoisted Maria up on a chair.
Within two months, Maria gained 100lbs, stopped having sex and began to tell Moshe that "if you listened to me, you'd be making more money!".
Moshe killed himself 2 days before Rosh Hashanah.
His suicide note, written in tears, simply said "Oy, I'm so meshugana"
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