Yesterday was my religious holiday of religious holidays. A day where I bury my lapsed Catholic life even deeper and embrace the traces of Irish heritage in my blood. It's a day where I forego my usual seven hundred dollar a bottle scotch and indulge in the guilty secret that I like Jameson on the rocks better. It's also a conflicted day for me, because St. Patrick's Day allows this "everyone's Irish on St. Paddy's Day" mentality and it makes it a little hard to separate the wheat from the chaff for genetically bred hardcore drinkers. Everyone tries to line up shots and go like it's in their blood, and the aftermath of that can prove tragic to witness. A perfectly attractive woman not wearing any underwear can end up covered in her own vomit mumbling about elevators while she tries to sleep it off against the outdoor ATM of a 24-hour pizzeria. Who wants thats?
Not that I'm any better, I often have to reconstruct my St. Patrick's Day exploits from receipts and traffic cam footage, but I'm proud to say I actually remember fleeting memories from last night. My years of heavy drinking have taught me a number of things, one of which is that there's good pizza and there's drunk pizza, and the pizza I want when I'm drunk happens to be somewhere in Penn Station. Not sure where since I'm always blitzed, but I've spent a lot of time eating pizza in Manhattan's "other train station." St. Patrick's Day is the best day for drunk pizza there because you get to watch the drunk Jersey trains fill up and ship out. Some fake tans, overly layered haircuts, college kids with gin and juice in their Poland Springs bottles, fat people in their late fifties drinking the same but wearing a lot more plastic green bowler hats... the spectacle can be worth the trip. Granted, I'd rather take a stiletto heel to the groin then get on a train to that forsaken land with those forsaken people, but watching them shuffle and stumble while I down seven slices of buffalo chicken baked ziti pizza (according to one receipt) ended up being a good time. I don't remember who I went home with, what they did with one of my thumb rings, or how I got to DUMBO afterward, but that's neither here nor there.
But here I am back at home, making sure to eat plenty of greasy eggs and bacon, surfing around on my laptop. I went over to Facebook for a bit just to see what my arch-nemesis, Sarah Palin, was posting about today with all the wit and insight of a malfunctioning Roomba and got distracted. A lot of pictures and stories on the "walls" of my "friends" about St. Patrick's Day. Some funny, some sweet, some typical, some boring, but there was a moment where I came dangerously close to getting Facebook. Almost posted a picture myself until I realized my pictures were all drunk shots of my own balls. So I went back into some of the history on these "walls" of "friends" and saw something that snapped me back from the brink of Facebook make-believe.
I mentioned earlier that I'm a lapsed Catholic, but that doesn't mean I'm still not spiritual, maybe more than I care to admit at times because what I saw shocked me a bit. People, in their status updates, were constantly asking for other people's prayers. And those people were constantly responding to the original update with confirmation of prayers on the way. Some were genuine and serious, a gravely ill family member took a turn for the worse. Most, though, were so trivial... pray for my lawn mower, pray that the soup special has a decent vegetarian option, pray for minor crap that distracts me from just how fortunate I truly am. The prayer requests were so prevalent that they couldn't have been sincere, and not the kind of sincere when you really like someone's t-shirt. The kind of sincere when you're dealing with God. At this rate, there's going to be a Pray button next to the Like button on Facebook just to save time and cap the meaninglessness of most of it.
So there you have it, another St. Patrick's Day in the books and another day wondering how Hemingway and James Joyce got as much writing done with all the drinking.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Sadness.
I've been sober for 4 days now, but then I see this. Not much to say, just wishing everyone Godspeed through this terrible time.
Melissa Gilbert and Bruce Boxleitner Split.
I hope we all see each other emerging from the darker side.
Melissa Gilbert and Bruce Boxleitner Split.
I hope we all see each other emerging from the darker side.
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Hollywood Left Continues to Hate America
Like any straight male who admits to watching the Oscars, I'm there for the foxy ladies and the chance at a nipple slip. The always tasteful and entertaining pageantry that comes as a free bonus reminds me these people truly deserve to be the exceptionalism on top of the de facto level of American Exceptionalism. They are America's royalty, and their chemical dependence, alcoholic binges, semi-informed stances on important topics of the day, cheesy tattoos, and imploding disposable marriages reaffirms that belief daily.
Just because they are American royalty doesn't mean I have to blindly do their bidding. Here in the United States, we have a long, proud tradition paid for in blood that allows me to choose to do the bidding of whichever extended basic cable personality talking head I choose. I cannot, and will not do that for Hollywood because they hate our country.
The latest proof? Last night's Oscar ceremony, where the Academy, in all of its French-worshipping wisdom, bestowed the highest honor our country has to offer, the Best Picture Academy Award, to The King's Speech over The Social Network - which just drips with made in the USA. Hollywood chose to honor the story of a stuttering weakling with his fancy clothes and accent learning how to talk (something I did at 29 months thank you very much) so he could avoid embarrassing himself when he had to beg Uncle Sam and George Patton to pull England's ass out of the Nazi fire.
The Social Network is an American story... have an idea that's the intellectual equivalent of those bottles that hang on hospital beds that you piss in when you can't make it to the toilet, and ride it to the stratosphere of billions of dollars. Facebook is America, and looking at recent events in the Middle East, maybe we should have sent Facebook into Iraq and Afghanistan if the goal was to give those countries the taste of American awesome that I assume every country totally wants.
Once again, Hollywood's actions force me to ask why they hate our country? They also sort of make me wonder why they hate real men? Sure, The Social Network is pure America, but even more pure America was True Grit, so when the overrated Social Network screenplay beat out True Grit, I had to wonder why were they celebrating dweebs over cowboys?
Who can crack the riddle of the left-wing liberal agenda?
Just because they are American royalty doesn't mean I have to blindly do their bidding. Here in the United States, we have a long, proud tradition paid for in blood that allows me to choose to do the bidding of whichever extended basic cable personality talking head I choose. I cannot, and will not do that for Hollywood because they hate our country.
The latest proof? Last night's Oscar ceremony, where the Academy, in all of its French-worshipping wisdom, bestowed the highest honor our country has to offer, the Best Picture Academy Award, to The King's Speech over The Social Network - which just drips with made in the USA. Hollywood chose to honor the story of a stuttering weakling with his fancy clothes and accent learning how to talk (something I did at 29 months thank you very much) so he could avoid embarrassing himself when he had to beg Uncle Sam and George Patton to pull England's ass out of the Nazi fire.
The Social Network is an American story... have an idea that's the intellectual equivalent of those bottles that hang on hospital beds that you piss in when you can't make it to the toilet, and ride it to the stratosphere of billions of dollars. Facebook is America, and looking at recent events in the Middle East, maybe we should have sent Facebook into Iraq and Afghanistan if the goal was to give those countries the taste of American awesome that I assume every country totally wants.
Once again, Hollywood's actions force me to ask why they hate our country? They also sort of make me wonder why they hate real men? Sure, The Social Network is pure America, but even more pure America was True Grit, so when the overrated Social Network screenplay beat out True Grit, I had to wonder why were they celebrating dweebs over cowboys?
Who can crack the riddle of the left-wing liberal agenda?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Insights into Irrelevant Television
Traffic Light versus Perfect Couples
My all-time favorite show, Two and a Half Men, with its Jason Voorhees-esque ability to stick around, had to go on a brief production hiatus because one of its stars, Charlie Sheen, needed a little "me time." So I thought I would check out a few of the other shows out there. I have my Tivo set to automatically record anything that has any remotely hot women in it, and while I may miss a few shows because my standards are evidently lower than my Tivo's, I usually do alright sifting through the 40 terabytes of additional storage I have hooked up to my box.
Through pure happenstance, I watched two particular mid-season replacements back to back. Perfect Couples and Traffic Light are both shows featuring an almost identical casts of early 30-somethings in almost identical places in their lives going through a few identical comedy bits.
Tough thing for me is that I haven't laughed once during either of the two episodes of Traffic Light that I've seen, and given my penchant for CBS sitcoms, I'll obviously laugh at anything. Even when I'm sober, I'm a wet dream for stand-up comedians doing their Laugh Factory Comedy Central specials because I nearly piss myself from moment one (I guess I'm basically the same drunk, just more handsy). Starting the tired routine about how men and women differ? Totally there. Stole a joke from Dane Cook? No problem. Laughed the first time, still going to laugh now.
So for a sitcom not to illicit a single laugh from me over the course of two episodes is disturbing. Maybe they could call it Law and Order: Traffic Light, rebrand it as a cop show, and save some jobs. The heart-string twist at the end of the pilot felt like it was meant for another series and rubber cemented onto this show.
Perfect Couples has a few more episodes under its belt, so while it also did not illicit a single laugh from me in the first two shows, I've gotten an isolated snort here and there from later episodes. Perfect Couples goes a little further with the stereotypical archetypes, and that helps separates it from the cast of Traffic Light, which so far has been the TV equivalent of sodium-free soup. Perfect Couples also has a foxy ace up its sleeve and her name is Olivia Munn. Always thought she was stunning, but I genuinely consider her a pretty funny personality as well. Traffic Light has no answer for Munn, and therefore I have to give this round of Insights into Irrelevant Television to Perfect Couples.
Now onto a Keeping Up With the Kardashians sorbet to cleanse the palate.
My all-time favorite show, Two and a Half Men, with its Jason Voorhees-esque ability to stick around, had to go on a brief production hiatus because one of its stars, Charlie Sheen, needed a little "me time." So I thought I would check out a few of the other shows out there. I have my Tivo set to automatically record anything that has any remotely hot women in it, and while I may miss a few shows because my standards are evidently lower than my Tivo's, I usually do alright sifting through the 40 terabytes of additional storage I have hooked up to my box.
Through pure happenstance, I watched two particular mid-season replacements back to back. Perfect Couples and Traffic Light are both shows featuring an almost identical casts of early 30-somethings in almost identical places in their lives going through a few identical comedy bits.
Tough thing for me is that I haven't laughed once during either of the two episodes of Traffic Light that I've seen, and given my penchant for CBS sitcoms, I'll obviously laugh at anything. Even when I'm sober, I'm a wet dream for stand-up comedians doing their Laugh Factory Comedy Central specials because I nearly piss myself from moment one (I guess I'm basically the same drunk, just more handsy). Starting the tired routine about how men and women differ? Totally there. Stole a joke from Dane Cook? No problem. Laughed the first time, still going to laugh now.
So for a sitcom not to illicit a single laugh from me over the course of two episodes is disturbing. Maybe they could call it Law and Order: Traffic Light, rebrand it as a cop show, and save some jobs. The heart-string twist at the end of the pilot felt like it was meant for another series and rubber cemented onto this show.
Perfect Couples has a few more episodes under its belt, so while it also did not illicit a single laugh from me in the first two shows, I've gotten an isolated snort here and there from later episodes. Perfect Couples goes a little further with the stereotypical archetypes, and that helps separates it from the cast of Traffic Light, which so far has been the TV equivalent of sodium-free soup. Perfect Couples also has a foxy ace up its sleeve and her name is Olivia Munn. Always thought she was stunning, but I genuinely consider her a pretty funny personality as well. Traffic Light has no answer for Munn, and therefore I have to give this round of Insights into Irrelevant Television to Perfect Couples.
Now onto a Keeping Up With the Kardashians sorbet to cleanse the palate.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Could it be love?
A few posts ago, right around New Year's 2011, I opened up more than I expected to and confessed that as much as I tout my writing as a means to score babes, what I might really want is for writing to help me find true love. Sure, there's something to be said for a high three-digit tally in the "Who banged the most Butter Faces with crazy stairmaster legs" game of life, but that game grows tiresome as you get older, if only because most hot chicks don't like old guys.
Then a revelation occurs, much like it did around New Year's Eve. Last night, I decide to take a night off from my usual lifestyle, and get comfortable on the sofa with a half gallon of activa yogurt and a thermos-full of my mother's world famous sea breeze. I'm all in for every moment of Justin Bieber I can get my hands on with about twelve different devices recording the Grammys in various capacities so I can pour over every moment later on. Needless to say, Bieber mofo'ing rocked it, as did my mother's Sea Breeze recipe. Show's over, and I start to assemble fan montages for the blogs that I know will have me up all night. That's when I saw her.
A vision from another world with the language skills to prove it. I don't know what the words to her angelic song meant, but I know they touched my soul, my deepest being. Sure, she lives in Los Angeles and I live in New York, but at least I have an idea of where my heart, and therefore my writing, want to take me. I hope she'll wait for me, because if anyone thinks I'm moving to LA so I can mix with all those Illegal Immigrant Scientologists praying to the earthquake gods, they're sorely mistaken.
Until then, au revoir, my love. I anxiously await getting to know you better when the Autotune the News folks go to town on this.
Then a revelation occurs, much like it did around New Year's Eve. Last night, I decide to take a night off from my usual lifestyle, and get comfortable on the sofa with a half gallon of activa yogurt and a thermos-full of my mother's world famous sea breeze. I'm all in for every moment of Justin Bieber I can get my hands on with about twelve different devices recording the Grammys in various capacities so I can pour over every moment later on. Needless to say, Bieber mofo'ing rocked it, as did my mother's Sea Breeze recipe. Show's over, and I start to assemble fan montages for the blogs that I know will have me up all night. That's when I saw her.
A vision from another world with the language skills to prove it. I don't know what the words to her angelic song meant, but I know they touched my soul, my deepest being. Sure, she lives in Los Angeles and I live in New York, but at least I have an idea of where my heart, and therefore my writing, want to take me. I hope she'll wait for me, because if anyone thinks I'm moving to LA so I can mix with all those Illegal Immigrant Scientologists praying to the earthquake gods, they're sorely mistaken.
Until then, au revoir, my love. I anxiously await getting to know you better when the Autotune the News folks go to town on this.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Everyday miracles
Sure, some people get to see the Virgin Mary in their blueberry pancakes or Munch's The Scream on their moldy butter. Then said people get to make an easy grand selling these food products on ebay or getting an interview on some local morning show. Not me, here's what I get:
I get the potato shaped like a dude's junk. Not even awe-inspiring junk, if I rolled that small I'd never stop crying. But there you have it, fortune took a moment to smile on me and that smile took the form of oven-roasted genitalia giving it that sweet leprosy vibe.
After I took that picture, I totally ate it and honestly it tasted exactly as an oven-roasted, garlic, rosemary, and olive oil coated set of balls made out of an organic potato should. It's nice, if not a bit strange, to actually remember how this dong ended up in my mouth as opposed to all those bizarre mornings waking from a night of blackout drinking in former Soviet satellite nations.
These digressions constantly remind me that I haven't cracked the writer's block I've suffered since I got my first two paragraphs down. I know a lot of writers use a tool called outlining, but I never knew what it was until recently. Apparently it's common practice at homicide scenes as well, but I can't see how outlines would accomplish anything there. Regardless, I decided maybe it was time I started expanding my writing tool box to get over this Chapter 1, Paragraph 2 hump I've crashed into.
1. Introduce King Rex on a penal mining asteroid working a jackhammer from the future. I mean really working it, glistening and grunting.
(Easy enough since I already wrote this.)
2. ????
3. ????
4-????. ????
????. King Rex and Hotina Fox totally do it. End with the hook to save the galaxy.
(Also easy enough since I already wrote this.)
Seeing my idea laid out like this has helped tremendously. I get so wrapped up in wanting to explore the beauty of language and wanting to score so many hot chicks, that I forget how often writing boils down to nose-to-the-grindstone work. It's not brain surgery, I just need to think of a few points that get Rex and Hotina from that first paragraph to complete carnal grunting. To do that, I'm going to need the right tools such as those giant touch screen displays I see on the 24-hour news channels. Can't do a proper outline without special-ordering a few of those.
Sure, I may still be climbing the slopes of Mount Writer's Block, but at least I can buy my way into sight of the peak.
I get the potato shaped like a dude's junk. Not even awe-inspiring junk, if I rolled that small I'd never stop crying. But there you have it, fortune took a moment to smile on me and that smile took the form of oven-roasted genitalia giving it that sweet leprosy vibe.
After I took that picture, I totally ate it and honestly it tasted exactly as an oven-roasted, garlic, rosemary, and olive oil coated set of balls made out of an organic potato should. It's nice, if not a bit strange, to actually remember how this dong ended up in my mouth as opposed to all those bizarre mornings waking from a night of blackout drinking in former Soviet satellite nations.
These digressions constantly remind me that I haven't cracked the writer's block I've suffered since I got my first two paragraphs down. I know a lot of writers use a tool called outlining, but I never knew what it was until recently. Apparently it's common practice at homicide scenes as well, but I can't see how outlines would accomplish anything there. Regardless, I decided maybe it was time I started expanding my writing tool box to get over this Chapter 1, Paragraph 2 hump I've crashed into.
1. Introduce King Rex on a penal mining asteroid working a jackhammer from the future. I mean really working it, glistening and grunting.
(Easy enough since I already wrote this.)
2. ????
3. ????
4-????. ????
????. King Rex and Hotina Fox totally do it. End with the hook to save the galaxy.
(Also easy enough since I already wrote this.)
Seeing my idea laid out like this has helped tremendously. I get so wrapped up in wanting to explore the beauty of language and wanting to score so many hot chicks, that I forget how often writing boils down to nose-to-the-grindstone work. It's not brain surgery, I just need to think of a few points that get Rex and Hotina from that first paragraph to complete carnal grunting. To do that, I'm going to need the right tools such as those giant touch screen displays I see on the 24-hour news channels. Can't do a proper outline without special-ordering a few of those.
Sure, I may still be climbing the slopes of Mount Writer's Block, but at least I can buy my way into sight of the peak.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Taking a stand
Sometimes there comes a moment in people's lives where they are forced to look destiny in the eye and shout to the heavens, "No further! We draw the line here." I assume this goes double when children are concerned, not that I'd know given how much I've spent on doctor's and lawyers to prove I'm not the baby daddy of any of those kids (you all know who you are).
So when Denise Richards tweets (Twitter? For the love of...) "If you caught 'GMA' today..FYI.. No 'adult film star' will be babysitting our kids!" I'm likely to believe her. I'd hate to be the porn star trying to get between a mother and her child, especially considering what Ms. Richard's character was capable of in Wild Things (no, not the champagne scene... which may be one of the finest in cinematic history).
Standards are not dead, except for those of the people who create a twitter account and say to themselves "I think I want to keep my finger on the pulse of Denise Richards' moment to moment existence." I take that back, I'm sure if I spent 30 seconds on twitter, I could find a former reality TV star whose only current claim to fame would be twitter posts and "I want a baby" headline interviews to US Weekly.
That said, Ms. Richards still looks fantastic, may need to bust out my Wild Things/Starship Troopers Laser Disc twin pack.
So when Denise Richards tweets (Twitter? For the love of...) "If you caught 'GMA' today..FYI.. No 'adult film star' will be babysitting our kids!" I'm likely to believe her. I'd hate to be the porn star trying to get between a mother and her child, especially considering what Ms. Richard's character was capable of in Wild Things (no, not the champagne scene... which may be one of the finest in cinematic history).
Standards are not dead, except for those of the people who create a twitter account and say to themselves "I think I want to keep my finger on the pulse of Denise Richards' moment to moment existence." I take that back, I'm sure if I spent 30 seconds on twitter, I could find a former reality TV star whose only current claim to fame would be twitter posts and "I want a baby" headline interviews to US Weekly.
That said, Ms. Richards still looks fantastic, may need to bust out my Wild Things/Starship Troopers Laser Disc twin pack.
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