Most of the walls are bare in any bedroom or apartment in which I've lived. Because I have yet to own the walls in which I dwell, I cannot paint, and the holes left by driven nails are generally discouraged. Beyond that, I am just generally obscenely selective about what I'd put on a wall. Apparently I'd rather have blank walls than stick up something that in my view falls even slightly short of being a complete triumph.
To date, I have authorized only three objects to cling from the walls of my current apartment.
My beloved print of "Christmas Disaster Special" from A Lesson Is Learned (But The Damage Is Irreversible) adorns the bedroom wall above the dresser where I assemble empty champagne bottles to use as candlesticks.
Above the other dresser hangs a tiny photograph of the Commonwealth Avenue pedestrian mall's statue of John Glover, or as I refer to him, Captain Fabulous. Really, you must admit; that statue is fantastic. John Glover must've been pretty awesome, because, well, just look at that fucking statue.
The photo I have, however, is particularly special in that Captain Fabulous has his complete sword. The thin stretch of metal that form the sword -- not the sheath, which remains intact -- had already been knocked out by some unholy rapscallion prior to our first encounter, but during a restoration two summers ago, the sword was repaired, and I snagged a photograph on a bright summer day for proof. As I anticipated, weeks later, someone had fucking stolen the Captain's sword again. But it's memory lives on, on my wall.
The third piece of all art I've authorized is a giant poster of the head of a great white shark emerging from the water, teeth a-blazin'. We haven't acquired this yet, but when we do, it's going over the toilet in the bathroom I share with T-Rex, to watch us pee.
That said, I think I may need a print of this. I'm not sure what the fuck is going on in this photograph, but there is definitely a lion in that sidecar, and this is awesome, and needs to be on my wall, perhaps in some sort of gaudy frame. He will sit, perhaps, over my bed. And pass judgment on all the sex. Not sure yet.
But I need it.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Great Pumpkin
Two years ago, I got a pumpkin for Halloween. I picked it from a patch in Vermont somewhere, roadtripping through northern New England with Kelly. When I purchased it, I asked the girl working the register if its dark green complexion would have any bearing on its livelihood as a pumpkin. I asked because the only other green pumpkin I recall encountering in the past was one my sister had selected when we were both very small, and that pumpkin effectively turned to slime shortly before Halloween.
"No," she said, "it'll be fine."
She was a lying witch.
I took my pumpkin home, sat it upon a coffee table, and lovingly named it Horatio, with plans to carve a marvelous face for him 'pon the weekend before All Hallow's Eve. But Horatio did not survive a full week, and, like his ancestor, turned to slime with record speed. I was devastated.
This past September -- late in September, I recall -- I saw that pumpkins had arrived at the supermarket that's just around the corner from where I live. I selected, securely, an orange pumpkin, of what seemed to be perfect proportions and hardy constitution.
The girl at the checkout gave me a look as she passed my new pumpkin to be bagged.
"Isn't it a little early to be buying a pumpkin?"
"You're selling them now."
And that was that.
I named him Horatio II, and he sat in many places in the kitchen and living room. I did not carve him by Halloween, and decided to leave him intact for Thanksgiving, provided he did not rot. And Horatio II didn't rot. In fact, he turned out to be the very Methuselah of pumpkindom.
December arrived, and there sat Horatio II, emitting no odor, showing no signs of mold, his rind as tough and fresh as ever. January snows piled up in our courtyard, and Horatio II looked on in complete approval. Feburary came and though I finally took my Christmas tree down, I could not bring myself to part with Horatio II. He showed no signs of decline, and it was fun to tell Sarah that he was filled, secretly, with millions of evil beetles. Beetles who would one day be free, and come for her.
And when Horatio II made it to March, I figured he might well last until next Halloween. But on his weekly checkup this past week, mold was discovered, and it had spread by Friday. For all his endurance, the end came quickly. This morning, in cleaning up the apartment to prepare for tonight's car bombs (in honor of St. Patrick's Day), I took Horatio II out to the shed and shot him.
Well, I bagged him and threw him in the dumpster. But it doesn't mean I loved him any less.
He shall forevermore be remembered as Horatio II: The Great Pumpkin, or Horatio the Great for short. Tonight, I will drink to, among many other things, his memory.
"No," she said, "it'll be fine."
She was a lying witch.
I took my pumpkin home, sat it upon a coffee table, and lovingly named it Horatio, with plans to carve a marvelous face for him 'pon the weekend before All Hallow's Eve. But Horatio did not survive a full week, and, like his ancestor, turned to slime with record speed. I was devastated.
This past September -- late in September, I recall -- I saw that pumpkins had arrived at the supermarket that's just around the corner from where I live. I selected, securely, an orange pumpkin, of what seemed to be perfect proportions and hardy constitution.
The girl at the checkout gave me a look as she passed my new pumpkin to be bagged.
"Isn't it a little early to be buying a pumpkin?"
"You're selling them now."
And that was that.
I named him Horatio II, and he sat in many places in the kitchen and living room. I did not carve him by Halloween, and decided to leave him intact for Thanksgiving, provided he did not rot. And Horatio II didn't rot. In fact, he turned out to be the very Methuselah of pumpkindom.
December arrived, and there sat Horatio II, emitting no odor, showing no signs of mold, his rind as tough and fresh as ever. January snows piled up in our courtyard, and Horatio II looked on in complete approval. Feburary came and though I finally took my Christmas tree down, I could not bring myself to part with Horatio II. He showed no signs of decline, and it was fun to tell Sarah that he was filled, secretly, with millions of evil beetles. Beetles who would one day be free, and come for her.
And when Horatio II made it to March, I figured he might well last until next Halloween. But on his weekly checkup this past week, mold was discovered, and it had spread by Friday. For all his endurance, the end came quickly. This morning, in cleaning up the apartment to prepare for tonight's car bombs (in honor of St. Patrick's Day), I took Horatio II out to the shed and shot him.
Well, I bagged him and threw him in the dumpster. But it doesn't mean I loved him any less.
He shall forevermore be remembered as Horatio II: The Great Pumpkin, or Horatio the Great for short. Tonight, I will drink to, among many other things, his memory.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Closer To Reality
I find it interesting -- for a number of reasons -- that ESPN's Eric Young is condemning Papelbon for trashing Manny now that he's left the Sox, breaking the unwritten rule about discussing what goes on in a baseball clubhouse.
First off, since when does a member of the sports media have any room to complain about an athlete actually dishing dirt and coughing up details? Guys like Jim Rice and -- oh yeah -- Manny Ramirez (while he was with Boston, anyhow) were long criticized and even, in Rice's case, delayed entry to the Hall of Fame for failure to deal well with reporters.
And it's not as if the truth isn't demanded even if it's unpleasant. For details on this, please see all of the drama swirling around the issue of steroids in baseball. Let's not fool ourselves, either; it was the truth. And which of the following is more dishonorable: Manny feigning injury to stay off the field and half-assing it when he was on the field for Boston so he could slip out of the contract he had agreed to honor, or Papelbon admitting that it sucked to be his teammate during that time even though you're not supposed to talk about that stuff. Yeah, let's scold Papelbon.
Let's also not forget that Papelbon didn't come out and say these things when Manny was still on the team allegedly being a cancer. All he did was tell the truth -- when prompted to do so -- after Manny had left, in the process of defending the strength and unity of his current team with Jason Bay in left field, certainly a higher obligation. Young seems to think it'd have taken more balls to trash a current teammate. I seem to think that's a more legitimate violation of baseball's unwritten code with which a talking head could take issue.
If I were to compare Papelbon to anyone, it would be Mongo from Blazing Saddles. He's a big, clumsy beast who you send out when you want something done. Chastising him for telling the unpleasant truth to your own industry is not only dumb but futile. Much as my general policy with regard to pitchers is "shut up and pitch," I can at least realize that a 6'4" closer from Louisiana who relies on his heat a bit too much is going to flap his gums every now and then.
And as long as he keeps his ERA under 2.50 for my team, I'll find it mighty hard to take issue with him. Not unlike how when Manny was on the Sox, as long as he went out and played and put up a .300+ average with 30+ HR's and 100+ RBI's, I didn't much care about much else.
First off, since when does a member of the sports media have any room to complain about an athlete actually dishing dirt and coughing up details? Guys like Jim Rice and -- oh yeah -- Manny Ramirez (while he was with Boston, anyhow) were long criticized and even, in Rice's case, delayed entry to the Hall of Fame for failure to deal well with reporters.
And it's not as if the truth isn't demanded even if it's unpleasant. For details on this, please see all of the drama swirling around the issue of steroids in baseball. Let's not fool ourselves, either; it was the truth. And which of the following is more dishonorable: Manny feigning injury to stay off the field and half-assing it when he was on the field for Boston so he could slip out of the contract he had agreed to honor, or Papelbon admitting that it sucked to be his teammate during that time even though you're not supposed to talk about that stuff. Yeah, let's scold Papelbon.
Let's also not forget that Papelbon didn't come out and say these things when Manny was still on the team allegedly being a cancer. All he did was tell the truth -- when prompted to do so -- after Manny had left, in the process of defending the strength and unity of his current team with Jason Bay in left field, certainly a higher obligation. Young seems to think it'd have taken more balls to trash a current teammate. I seem to think that's a more legitimate violation of baseball's unwritten code with which a talking head could take issue.
If I were to compare Papelbon to anyone, it would be Mongo from Blazing Saddles. He's a big, clumsy beast who you send out when you want something done. Chastising him for telling the unpleasant truth to your own industry is not only dumb but futile. Much as my general policy with regard to pitchers is "shut up and pitch," I can at least realize that a 6'4" closer from Louisiana who relies on his heat a bit too much is going to flap his gums every now and then.
And as long as he keeps his ERA under 2.50 for my team, I'll find it mighty hard to take issue with him. Not unlike how when Manny was on the Sox, as long as he went out and played and put up a .300+ average with 30+ HR's and 100+ RBI's, I didn't much care about much else.
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Night You Can't Remember
If life was a soap opera, I would be the character constantly stricken with an inconveniently selective case of amnesia. I can remember, for instance, every line from "Kill Bill Vol. 2," but I cannot, on the other hand, remember what the Hell my plans are supposed to be for Saturday.
Help me, second installment of the Deven Green parody videos of Brenda Dickson!
I believe it was Nietzsche who once cautioned against staring into a vajeene for too long...
Help me, second installment of the Deven Green parody videos of Brenda Dickson!
I believe it was Nietzsche who once cautioned against staring into a vajeene for too long...
Thursday, March 5, 2009
All Is Well That Ends
Having roused myself at 5:45 A.M. this morning in order to comply with T-Rex's need to leave for work by 6:30 A.M. this week, I wasn't that surprised when the driver's side front door on his car refused his keys, meaning I would be unlocking the car from my side. As he went to toss them over, he expressed annoyance at having to clean off his car again, as a substantial amount of snow and ice had apparently slid from the rooftop immediately above where he parked. It wasn't until I got into the car, however, that I had the pleasure of breaking the news to him that the impact of the ice and snow had destroyed his windshield, sending a spiderweb of cracks throughout the entire driver's side half of the glass.
Having determined that the cracks had not fully reached the inside of the glass, we started up the car and began the drive to work. But with each bump my dear roommate hit along the road -- and the road we take has no shortage of ambitious potholes -- the cracks expanded slightly. Ominous!
On the bright side, we would finally learn what it was like to be Ace Ventura at the wheel, though I could not help but play out a scenario in my head in which a bump caused the glass to completely implode, smattering T-Rex's face with thousands of shards and impairing his ability to drive in the process. At that moment, I -- only grazed by the shards in a way that would leave noticeable but sexy facial scars -- would then be his eyes, guiding the used Honda Civic otherwise known as The Ark safely along until we could further address the situation without the risk of physically greeting oncoming traffic from all directions.
In the alternate future, I am a hero.
In reality, I arrived safely at my destination, trying to slam the passenger's side door as gently as possible, proceeding to my desk with the blistering consciousness that, as far as starts to one's Thursday are concerned, only T-Rex's had been worse to my knowledge. But we -- the royal we -- are going to change that, all of that, immediately.
Fate -- though imaginary -- is on my side; one of my coworkers just handed me half an onion bagel, lightly toasted, with cream cheese already on. Tomorrow is pay day, which means I am quantifiable hours from sushi and freshly popped pink champagne, my Diplomacy games have all shifted in my favor, my Restaurant Week dance card of seven reservations just filled up, and I have declared it to be "Post Music To Your Blog Day." Those who do not participate will perish in flame.
Without further ado, here are the proper anthems by which to turn the tides of a Thursday that got off on the wrong face. Bukkake:
Bonus Levels:
Andrew W.K. - "Party Hard"
Bill Withers - "Lovely Day"
Ludacris - "Georgia" (dj erb remix)
Having determined that the cracks had not fully reached the inside of the glass, we started up the car and began the drive to work. But with each bump my dear roommate hit along the road -- and the road we take has no shortage of ambitious potholes -- the cracks expanded slightly. Ominous!
On the bright side, we would finally learn what it was like to be Ace Ventura at the wheel, though I could not help but play out a scenario in my head in which a bump caused the glass to completely implode, smattering T-Rex's face with thousands of shards and impairing his ability to drive in the process. At that moment, I -- only grazed by the shards in a way that would leave noticeable but sexy facial scars -- would then be his eyes, guiding the used Honda Civic otherwise known as The Ark safely along until we could further address the situation without the risk of physically greeting oncoming traffic from all directions.
In the alternate future, I am a hero.
In reality, I arrived safely at my destination, trying to slam the passenger's side door as gently as possible, proceeding to my desk with the blistering consciousness that, as far as starts to one's Thursday are concerned, only T-Rex's had been worse to my knowledge. But we -- the royal we -- are going to change that, all of that, immediately.
Fate -- though imaginary -- is on my side; one of my coworkers just handed me half an onion bagel, lightly toasted, with cream cheese already on. Tomorrow is pay day, which means I am quantifiable hours from sushi and freshly popped pink champagne, my Diplomacy games have all shifted in my favor, my Restaurant Week dance card of seven reservations just filled up, and I have declared it to be "Post Music To Your Blog Day." Those who do not participate will perish in flame.
Without further ado, here are the proper anthems by which to turn the tides of a Thursday that got off on the wrong face. Bukkake:
Bonus Levels:
Andrew W.K. - "Party Hard"
Bill Withers - "Lovely Day"
Ludacris - "Georgia" (dj erb remix)
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Diplomacy
The following is a choice excerpt from a conversation with my ex about an online game of Diplomacy in which we're running a Franco-Italian alliance. This is, essentially, a suicide pact, but so far we're holding our own in the face of the Juggernaut (a firm Russia-Turkey alliance).
Me: But we have one huge benefit right now
Me: And that's naval power
Him: Togetherness?
Him: Oh.
They should call it... DipLOLmacy.
Me: But we have one huge benefit right now
Me: And that's naval power
Him: Togetherness?
Him: Oh.
They should call it... DipLOLmacy.
Other-Wise
I'm probably slaughtering the quote, but I believe it was Ben Franklin who said that "some people are weather-wise, but most folks are otherwise."
Because I am completely unabashed about embracing my inner dork, yesterday I attended a get-together of members from a message board about the fucking weather.
It was about twenty straight guys, mostly thirty or older, and me. It's essentially a bizarre fraternity with no pledge process by which to filter the absolute train wrecks, so, needless to say, it's a very, very motley crew. Regardless of my status anomalies as the lone early-twenties man-fucker of the bunch, I didn't end up paying for any of my drinks.
They flirted openly with the waitress, who, ironically enough, was interested in me.
On more than one occasion, the bartender asked us to move to another section of the bar as we -- a bunch of weather enthusiasts and meteorologists rattling off conjecture -- had become too rowdy in the immediate vicinity of the quieter dinner-hour crowd.
This is actually not that surprising, though; the annual conferences are famous for debauchery and excessive partying. The last time I attended, yours truly was kicked out of the hotel pool in my underwear in Philadelphia at four in the morning, feigning immigrant ignorance with a horrid drunken attempt at a Russian accent that wasn't exactly fooling the police.
At some point during the evening, a small gaggle of mid-forties gays wandered into the bar, one of whom, apparently, decided to bark deliberately up the wrong tree for laughs, ambling over and asking questions about the weather as though actually interested in the responses offered by my comrades.
I spent the rest of the evening serving as a sexuality Wikipedia for the rabble,
Oh well.
We couldn't have picked a better night to banter about weather, seeing as there's a massive storm on the way this evening. I'm anticipating that my office will be closed tomorrow, leaving me "free" to get blitzed and indulge my other nerdy vice, Star Wars Battlefront II.
Because I am completely unabashed about embracing my inner dork, yesterday I attended a get-together of members from a message board about the fucking weather.
It was about twenty straight guys, mostly thirty or older, and me. It's essentially a bizarre fraternity with no pledge process by which to filter the absolute train wrecks, so, needless to say, it's a very, very motley crew. Regardless of my status anomalies as the lone early-twenties man-fucker of the bunch, I didn't end up paying for any of my drinks.
They flirted openly with the waitress, who, ironically enough, was interested in me.
On more than one occasion, the bartender asked us to move to another section of the bar as we -- a bunch of weather enthusiasts and meteorologists rattling off conjecture -- had become too rowdy in the immediate vicinity of the quieter dinner-hour crowd.
This is actually not that surprising, though; the annual conferences are famous for debauchery and excessive partying. The last time I attended, yours truly was kicked out of the hotel pool in my underwear in Philadelphia at four in the morning, feigning immigrant ignorance with a horrid drunken attempt at a Russian accent that wasn't exactly fooling the police.
At some point during the evening, a small gaggle of mid-forties gays wandered into the bar, one of whom, apparently, decided to bark deliberately up the wrong tree for laughs, ambling over and asking questions about the weather as though actually interested in the responses offered by my comrades.
I spent the rest of the evening serving as a sexuality Wikipedia for the rabble,
Oh well.
We couldn't have picked a better night to banter about weather, seeing as there's a massive storm on the way this evening. I'm anticipating that my office will be closed tomorrow, leaving me "free" to get blitzed and indulge my other nerdy vice, Star Wars Battlefront II.
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