Greg the Boyfriend

My Mathematical Mind

2006-09-12T02:51:00.000-04:00

I just spent the last three weeks doing the most intense and insane math course ever conceived my any human. Basically, every day in 4 hours we covered an entire college semester's worth of math. Linear Algebra, Multivariate Calculus, Econometrics, Dynamic Systems (linear, nonlinear, autonomous, non autonomous and all combinations of the aforementioned), etc, etc. I did this because last Friday I had to pass a very arduous 3 hour test in order to not get kicked out of the masters program I'm in.

I passed, and supposedly even did well.

The next year or two of my life will be dedicated to more schooling, research, teaching (ok...TAing), and writing a thesis.

Its not as if anyone reads this anyway, but just in case people are that bored that they actually do still come here, its safe to say that I will be much too busy being a giant dork to have anything fun to talk about.

Unless one considers Lagrangian functions and financial theory "fun". In which case, you should be shot.

love,
GregTheEconDork.

Pittsburgh has yellow bridges and I wear red.

2006-07-04T00:56:00.000-04:00

While exploring some park in Pittsburgh, GM was nice enough to give us a few bright red picnic blankets.

Seriously, if given a bunch of red blankets there is only ONE thing you are allowed to do with them.

Pretend you are this badass:

That's right. The Imperial muthafuckin Guard.

Only problem is, is that without the helmet, it doesn't quite look right. So we said, "Screw those imperial guards...everyone knows their just the Emporer's bitches anyway." And off we went to take red cloaked versions of the man himself.

That's right...the Emperor!

Only problem is, is that I can't do anything manly to save my life...so, instead of it looking all bad-ass. Like some sinister Greg peeking out from under a blood-red cloak of power, it looked like this:

Look familiar? Is it The Emperor? Not so much. Could it be that National Geographic cover from the 80's? You know...the one with the refugee girl from Afghanistan?

Unfortunately, thats a resounding, "yes".

a bit belated...

2006-06-21T14:16:00.000-04:00

I had planned on live-blogging our trip across the country, but alas, free wireless is not as predominant on the plains of Kansas as we thought.

Pictures of the question mark with new friends will come soon, but in the meantime, a brief recap of one city stop...

Although I think the video of our spontaneous football game with the waitstaff of Hooters that took place in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere Missouri will be more crowd-pleasing, this memory comes from Las Vegas.

After a hellish 14 hour drive over the Rockies and through the Utah dessert, we arrived in Vegas and after a quick nap, we hit the whiskey we bought the day before in Pueblo Colorado. With no food in me, it hit me kinda quick and by the time we were in a cab on our way out, I was already a bit too far gone.

The previous tennants of the cab had left behind a single long-stemmed rose, which quickly became the object of my fascination. As we rode the cab away from the strip in search of something more real than the tourist traps of casinos and strip clubs, I mocked the fake sensuality of Vegas strippers by slowly peeling the pedals off from the bud of my poor rose. I managed to pull off the flower striptease with enough perversity to make Andrew uncomfortable, and chuckling to myself, I looked down and saw my crotch covered in rose petals. It was very American Beauty.

So with a whiskey-fueled sense of logic, I shoved all the loose rose petals down my pants, nestling my package in silky soft pieces of a gorgeous red flower.

Unfortunately, I was drunk enough to completely forget that I had done this, and fast forward a couple hours later when I am standing next to this total old school Texan cowboy type at a urinal and I undo my pants to piss, and a cascade of rose petals gently flow to the floor covering both our feet with the flowers of royalty.

Obviously shocked, confused, and disgusted, the cowboy was quick to shake off, zip up and leave. Rose petals at your feet is apparently good enough for kings, but not for cowboys.

A few hours later, the desire to go number two came upon me, and, once again forgetting, I was shocked to see a bunch of pedals drift down into the bowl to swim with my droppings as I did my business. And dare I say it, if there is anything that can make a bowl of poop look elegant, its the addition of rose pedals. A little tip in case you ever find yourself in the precarious situation of having just pooped in a toilet that won't seem to flush. Add some rose pedals and all will be forgiven.

Admittedly, this story would have been much better if it had involved some random young lady peeling off my undies for a bit of naughty fun, only to have roses burst out along with my manhood, but alas, besides the aforementioned game of football, this trip was just us boys being silly.

Speaking of them, when they awoke, the next morning, they found me laying half uncovered in my bed, surrounded by what looked like little balls of rabbit droppings. Small round brown things surrounded me everywhere, and I awoke to screams of disgust and horror as my two compatriots awoke convinced that I had slept in a pile of my own odd droppings.

In fact, the remnants of the once beautiful pedals had worked there way out of my undies and had been crushed and rolled into tiny bruised balls by my body as I tossed and turned throughout the night. By morning and upon closer inspection, I found they resembled dried cranberries more than anything else. I quickly discovered they also make very effective projectiles when waging war against the boys intent on teasing you the next morning.

And that was not the Vegas story I expected, but it was the one I got.

Is anybody out there?!

2006-05-15T13:43:00.000-04:00

UPDATE! We have our first picture with the question mark!

Although I doubt anyone has read this site in forever, I would like to announce that I will be driving across the country with 2 of my oldest and dearest friends in early June, starting in NYC and ending in San Francisco.

Traveling with us will be my most prized possession, a giant blue question mark that stands around 3 feet tall and weighs something awful.

So, if you have recommendations for places to visit, sleep, eat, see, do, or would like to get your picture taken with our giant question mark, please email me.

Thanks,
Greg

Anyway, here is the picture of me in a lame-as pose with my question mark:

A Rambling Christmas Post

2005-12-20T14:29:00.000-05:00

The cover of a recent daily paper has the headline, “Bad Santa.” The accompanying picture shows a tall and skinny Santa doll holding the bloody severed head of a child. Apparently it was put up in protest of the crass materialism that now surrounds Christmas.

Interestingly, Christmas was a strongly contested holiday in US for most of this country’s history. The puritans and other religious purists viewed it as the remnants of a pagan tradition with no true basis in Christianity. (Try to find the date Dec. 25th in the Bible. I dare you). It was only with the birth of the corporation that Christmas took off, and for many, the biggest shopping day of the year, Black Friday, is the day when Christmas shopping finally decides whether or not many of these corporations will post profits for that year.

Somehow my brother and I both ended up with a strong hatred of materialism. Maybe it was our father’s constant pressure to be successful that caused us to embrace the idea as an emotional safeguard in case we could never live up to his expectations. Maybe our embrace of the proletariat was our backup plan, our way of saying, “well, we never wanted to be successful anyway.”

Despite the puritan founder’s best attempts, Christmas has sunk its way deep into the Christianity of the US. So much so that there is now a backlash against all things Christmas in our country’s attempt to separate church and state. Places now sell holiday trees, not Christmas trees, and every public display of a Christmas tree is balanced out with symbols of other denominations and religions. Happy Chanukah and Kwanzaa to all. Chanukah isn’t even that important to most Jews. As my Shabbat loving friend put it, “it’s the celebration of a right-wing coup by a band of Jewish brothers, trying to overthrow their rulers.” In the Jewish world, it’s a relatively new holiday. New enough that the Ethiopian Jews don’t even celebrate it as they had long left Israel by that point, and it carries just a fraction of the importance of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, or Passover.

It was sort of a consolation prize for those kids that Santa didn’t bring any presents to. (Kwanzaa, a completely made up holiday compiling a number of traditional African ceremonies has an even more ridiculous history despite its good intentions.)

I remember back when I was around 6, there was some TV movie about the life of Jesus. I didn’t really know much about the guy and I had a little bit of trouble following the story. Being the budding artist I was, I attempted to draw the famous crucifixion and above my depiction of Our Lord’s death, I wrote the one single fact I was able to fully comprehend about the man.

“Jesus is a dead man.”

I didn’t mean it like the threat it sounds. It was just a statement of fact. Once this guy was alive, and now he’s died. Obviously he had historical importance, after all, they made a movie about him, but I really didn’t differentiate his role in the world from that of anyone else who lived and died and made a mark. Jesus, Napoleon, Bob Hope…same deal. All dead men.

Like any void, I wasn’t even aware of my own personal lack of religious knowledge. As hard as it is to imagine something happening at a public school now, I remember being quite young and a teacher asking us all what religion we were. The kids went down the line, some answering blandly, “Christian”, with others being more specific, stating, Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic, Jewish, Hindi, Buddhist, and I even recall one Zoroastrian, only because it really impressed my teacher. At that point I didn’t know that Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists, etc, were all “protestant” nor that they all fell under the even bigger umbrella of “Christian.” To my young ears it seemed like everyone had their own personal religion. When the teacher came to me, I didn’t have an answer for me, so she asked met he default question, “Do you celebrate Christmas?” and upon my answer, she told me I was a Christian.

Christmas, Christian, they sounded alike. It made sense to me. If you celebrate Christmas, you were a Christian. With all the glorious presents of Christmas, being a Christian seemed like the best one and I was pretty damn happy to be a Christian.

I ran home to tell my mom the good news. I was a Christian and therefore entitled to Christmas presents.

My mother frowned.

“The next time a teacher asks you that, tell them you’re a heaven.”

Later, when I turned 13. Certain friends of mine started getting big parties thrown in their honor. I seemed never to be invited. But one of my friend’s showed me a video tape of his “Bar Mitzvah” and there I saw something amazing. Boys dancing with girls, laughing and singing. I had never been to a party with girls like that so I was totally jealous. Sure, we had school dances, but at those the boys and girls just kinda stood at opposite sides of the room and kicked their feet, a brave few venturing off together to bear hug as they turned in circles together, but nothing like the carefree celebrations I saw on this tape.

My friend then went on to tell me about all the money he had gotten at his party, and all of a sudden I understood it all. You had to PAY to go to these parties, and since I really didn’t have any money at that point in my life, it made sense why I was never invited.

“No, no, no. They don’t pay to come, they give you money as a gift!” my friend explained. “just how much?” I asked.

The answer was a lot. A lot more money that I could even comprehend.

“So can I have one of these parties too?”

“No. Only Jews can have a Bar Mitzvah,” my friend informed me.

All of a sudden I was feeling the downsides to being a Christian.

But then a funny thing started to happen. All of my other “Christian” friends started all getting worried about some ceremony where they had to go to church and recite a bunch of religious lines.

“What? You don’t know what Confirmation is?” my friend asked.

I responded that I did not, and he told me the deal. Basically, when you are a baby, you are too young to accept God, so your God parents do it for you, then, when you are old enough, you go back to the church, and accept him your self.

Without doing this, I was told, you were condemned to hell.

I got scared. I didn’t have any God parents, so who was there for me when I was baptized?

Once again, I asked my mom.

“You weren’t baptized,” she said.

“What? So I’m condemned to hell?”

“How can you believe in a religion that thinks the difference between going to heaven and hell can come down to something so insignificant as dunking you in some water when you’re a baby?”

I didn’t have an answer. And it was then that realized just exactly what my mom meant when she said I was a heathen and what having two scientists as parents really meant.

We didn’t believe in God.

No wonder I didn’t have God parents. No wonder we never prayed. No wonder we never said grace or went to church, or did any of those things other families did.

But sometimes my mother would surprise me. Especially when she was tipsy and these questions would come out showing that her mind wasn’t exactly as made up as I thought.

“Will my mom see me as how I looked when she died? Or how I looked when I died?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in Heaven,” I replied.

“Maybe. I don’t know. It just doesn’t really make sense to me. And I don’t think I’d want to live for eternity anyway. It sounds pretty boring,”

My dad was a bit different. When Christmas or Easter rolled around, the music would start. Some days it was Handel’s Messiah and other classical pieces. Other days it was the classics…”Silent Night,” “Oh, Christmas Tree,” etc. etc.

Only they were in German.

My dad has a lot of German in him, and a lot of music in him as well. His whole side of the family is blessed with musical talent. Everyone plays an instrument and can sing with ease. Many of the women in my family history gave piano lessons or played at churches. I heard stories about my grandfather and his siblings sitting around a piano singing and playing music together, and other stories about my dad’s days in his college glee club.

I remember when he made me take piano lessons and how we’d play a game where I would press a key on the piano when he was in the other room and he would come back and be able to press the same exact key just from the sound of it.

That amazed me. I couldn’t do that. Sure, I could tell that the sounds each key made was different, but I could never wrap my mind around what exactly the difference was.

You see. I am tone deaf.

I got this from my mom. The lady doesn’t have a musical bone in her body. In fact, she has never even purchased a piece of music in her life. I’ve never even heard her listen to music on the radio. Our car rides were always the news or books on tape. Never music, except when my dad put it on.

This makes a birthday in our house an incredibly awkward thing. A father with perfect pitch growing increasingly frustrated as his tone deaf wife and kids murder the simplest of melodies. Usually someone was crying before the candles were even blown out.

And I think it was Christmas that our lack of musical ability hit him the hardest. It was the day he fondly remembered the holidays of his youth, spent with his musical family, singing classic carols in classic German, the family together as a whole and loving unit making beautiful harmonies together.

But not in our house. We hated singing and feared our father’s wrath over our lack of talent.

But the songs played anyway, and we inched further away from the living room away from his attempts to force musical talent into our talentless bodies, and the more we tried to escape, the louder the music became, until Christmas became nothing but music. Music screaming out about the talent we all lacked.

But it never once was about God, the Virgin Mary, or the Baby Jesus in our house. Just about the death of our German family traditions.

The puritans would have been so proud.

Falling

2005-12-07T11:38:00.000-05:00

I'm out of practice so maybe this post is way lame. Sorry.

I’m limping like hell today. Not as bad as yesterday when I was screaming that my leg must be broken, but bad enough to piss off the pushy subway riders wondering why I can’t speed the fuck up down those stairs to the station.

-

Your girlfriend tells you that she is going to eat lite that day so that she is a nice cheap drunk. You look forward to your last night in New York together being filled with crazy drunken sex. Crazy drunken sex nights become rarer and rarer when you live together. The last time we both came home tipsy I kinda spoiled the mood when I pulled out the obscenely long French fry from our drunken late night meal to compare its length to my cock right as she was about to go down on me. I admit, its not the sexiest move I’ve ever pulled, but goddamnit, I thought it was funny.

So yes…the idea of my normally quite sober girlfriend getting a little tanked and slutty was sounding pretty damn awesome to me. Thank God for birthday parties.

A couple months back, a good friend of mine was having a birthday party and another friend called and thanked her for holding a get together.

“You don’t understand…because of your birthday party, my girlfriend is going to come home to me all drunk and horny and I am going to have awesome sex.”

I laughed at that back then, but now I totally understand.

So once again, hurray for birthday parties.

And so there we were…a couple glasses of champagne to start things off, a shot or two here and there to seal the deal and pretty soon she was having a ripping good time, smiling, laughing and even going on and on about how hot some of the other girls were looking. And she squeezed between some of those girls and she invited me to squeeze between them with her.

It was awesome.

But when you live with someone, you know then through and through, so when that huge drunken smile suddenly sours out of no where, and she suddenly shoots off out of the room, you realize that maybe you got a little greedy when she asked you to pour her another shot. (but it was only her second! Or was it her third? Oh shit…was it four? Idiot. Write it down next time.)

And so I ran upstairs after her and caught a glimpse of her before she locked herself in the bathroom.

And I waited.

For a long time.

Until there was nothing but silence coming from behind that door.

And I pulled out my credit card, thought, “Oh God, this probably looks so bad…a boy picking the lock the girls room,” waited for the owners of the bar to look away, and popped open the door.

And there she was, passed out on the cold tile floor.

I did a quick wipe down, cleaning most of the puke for those poor bar owners, before picking her up and setting her down on a nearby seat. I went back downstairs and skipped all the goodbyes as I grabbed our coats and ran back to her side.

I decided to skip a cab and just walk the 1.5 blocks home. The cool air might do her some good, not to mention the disaster that happened in the back of a cab the last time she was like this.

But her feet weren’t walking as much as doing some sort of square dance shuffle and it was more work than I anticipated.

Eventually we made it back home and I started cursing at the 3 flights of stairs leading up to our 4th floor walk up apartment. The first two flights were ok, but by the third, I didn’t have the strength to carry her anymore and I begged her to wrap her arms around me tight and we took baby steps up the whole way. And at the top, with our door only feet away, it happened. Her legs buckled and she started to fall over. I threw myself between her and the stairs, hoping she’d ride me down like a sled, but instead we both fell head over heals, somersaulting the entire way. I hit the ground first, just in time to see her do her final somersault before she came crashing down on me. I thanked God she landed on me.

I was in shock. We had both just fallen down about 20 feet of stairs, tangled up in some sort of painful cuddle position. But I pulled myself together and carried her up that last flight like I should have done before. I dropped her on the bed, but she just rolled right off the side, landing with a thud on the floor. I tried to get her back on the bed, but she fought me and told me to leave her there, so I put a pillow between her bed and the laptop she landed on, and threw the covers on her and went to bed.

It was only then that the pain hit me. My leg felt like it had been smashed with a sledgehammer. After about 30 minutes of moaning in pain, I finally drifted in to sleep.

I awoke the next morning and remembered that she had a flight to catch and it indeed was a Tuesday and I had to get to work. I collapsed the second I tried to put weight on my leg, hobbled over the phone, and called in sick. She woke up, cursed alcohol, and changed her flight to Thursday.

We spent the day like invalids, her nursing her hangover, and me, my leg. We ordered food and watched movies in bed, including the first movie we ever saw together. And we looked at each other and realized just how close we had grown since that first viewing and our cuddles and caresses quickly escalated until we discovered something magical, something much hotter than drunken slutty sex, and something that can only come when you first realize that you would, without hesitation, throw yourself between harms way and the person you love.

But a bit of drunken slutty sex every now and then would still be fucking awesome.

Fuck the labels

2005-12-07T11:19:00.000-05:00

So a friend of mine told me that I was quoted on NPR recently during a story about Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. I thought that was pretty cool, although they used some lame quote I don't even remember making. [I think that last link is broken]

Anyway, it reminded me of a post I wrote but never posted because the last thing that the internet needed a few months back was yet another mention of that band...but anyway, I thought the NPR story didn't dig deep enough, so here is my long lost post about the band and their tactics. Maybe if I had posted it, there could have been a better quote.

Anyway, on to the abandoned post:

I’m in the midst of a move, one of the most hellish activities that a spoiled lazy person like me can go through. I ran across my old 4-track recorder and for a brief moment thought about selling it before I realized that they’re not worth shit anymore.

A crappy sounding 4-tracks on a pain in the ass analog format. Maybe its fun for young kids, but with home versions of pro-tools and other readily available computer add-ons, it’s a complete relic of the past. My upstairs neighbor makes professional sounding recordings with his home studio. Sure his mixers and soundboards and mics cost a hell of a lot more, but anyone with a decent computer can put something together that is much nicer that my old tascam machine for next to nothing.

I started thinking about friends of mine who’ve thrown together really good recordings with ease these days and relatively cheaply and it got me thinking about a story I read about Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. I was one of those guys who really liked the tracks they were trickling out on their website as they recorded them, so when they announced that their album was done, I immediately emailed a few of the guys in the band to get my hands on a copy. This wasn’t easy as they told me that no stores had any copies yet and I even made a deal to walk the ten blocks north of my apartment to meet one of them and get it by hand. I suggested we meet by the hams in the nearby supermarket. It seems like a nice specific place where there could be no confusion on location, but I think it weirded homeboy out because he stopped responding to my emails. Luckily, someone else in the band told me that they had just dropped two copies off at a local record shop so I walked down there and picked one up.

Later, I read the now common-knowledge fact about how they decided to skip the whole record label thing and how, in doing so, they were able to push their profits up from $1 per CD to more like $8. This seemed smart to me, so I decided to take a look at what exactly a label does for you these days.

So. A label. They pay for your recordings, fund your tours, pay for promotions, etc. etc. Of course, its actually the band that pays for this. They just sort of loan you the money and you pay them back with the money you make from sales. So these average bands that are making 1/8th the money per CD, not only have to sell 8 times as many records to make the same kind of money, they have to sell even more to pay back all those costs the label has been racking up on their behalf.

I am not talking about publishing or distribution. You can get those deals without a label. Clap Your Hands finally opted to get a distributor when it became too time consuming to package and mail off all those CD’s by hand. And publishing, where the real money is, is done from a separate deal from the label signing.

So take the recording process. Back in the day, you needed a label to front the bills for studio time, but now you can do it at home. Even if you do go into a real studio, its not that bad. I read that CYHSY spent $10,000 on studio time. But, remember, that is probably split 5 ways between the members, and that that $2,000 per person was probably split over a few months time. Compared to NYC rent, the cost of fancy guitars and amps, practice space costs, etc. its not really that much more and any dedicated band could probably scrape that kinda cash together, especially if they opted for an EP instead of an LP.

And since CYHSY proved you could manage the manufacturing and distribution side initially, what we are left with is pure volume of sales. Can the label really do enough to push your sales up the 10 fold or so it needs to be for profits to be the same?

Can all their interns calling radio stations do that much? Do the videos they make you make get you that much attention? Are those signs on the streets increasing sales that much? Those ads on pitchfork? How much good do they do?

With a major label backing them, would you really hear CYHSY on the radio more often? Probably not. With or without label backing, I don’t think the homogenized Clearchannel radio station monopoly will believe in the mass commerciality of CYHSY. But they aren’t going after the Britney Spears demographic. At best, they could sell 100,000 copies if they had someone like matador pushing them, but hell, they are doing better financially with the 17,000 they’ve sold on their own, so why even bother? They aren’t an MTV band, and with the higher profit margins they have, they can afford to fund their own tours, and really it’s the managers and booking agents scoring them the good gigs, not the label, anyway.

Face it. It’s the internet. Its word of mouth. Its reviews on websites and music blogs that make the popularity of a band explode over night. For any band unwilling to compromise their sound in exchange for commerciality, there seems to be little sense left in going into a bargain where you keep so little of the money you make on your sales.

So why bother? Can anyone out their crunch the numbers and prove to me the financial reasons why a band condemned to niche markets to begin with would find it advantageous to hand over so much of their profits to a company capable of locking them into shitty record deals, abandoning them, screwing them, or even suing them?

What does the label really have to offer that you can’t do on your own now? Do those internet ads that you pay for increase your sales 10 fold? Do ten times as many people buy the album because of the posters on construction sites? When you are doomed by your sound to never get national radio air time or MTV video time (like they even show videos anymore), what is the point of it all?

I remember one time when I was with Paul Banks at an ATM late one night (a while after Turn on the Bright Lights, but before Antics), he took a look at the receipt of the person before him, and said, “damn, look, he has three grand in his account! Someone is stoked!” Now I am pretty sure those guys do better know, what with getting paid for photo shoots, parlaying fame into lucrative DJing gigs, publishing rights, etc. etc., but damn, I think of the CHYSY boys with over $20,000 each off 17,000 albums, and think, maybe they are on to something here.

[note: since I wrote this, they have sold more like 25,000 copies]

hiatus again.

2005-10-07T13:01:00.000-04:00

I'm totally hating the internet these days.

An ode to sausage fests.

2005-10-05T10:12:00.000-04:00

"i'm really glad we do this."

I've known him for 12 years and the "this" we were doing was something we probably spent most of those 12 years avoiding.

Hanging out with just the boys.

Six guys in bar sharing pitchers of bud and playing darts together. If I picture that in my head I imagine a group of lame frat boy jocks or else a group of guys too funny looking to get dates. Never did any of us ever expect to be that group.

But with three of us in serious relationships, and another three seriously into dating, its a rare thing for us to find ourselves free from the company of women.

12 years I've known him. That covers three cities. 12 years have we sat in a room full of boys and cursed the lack of ladies.

12 years have we hunted for them. From driving around trying to find suburban parties in high school to trawling bars and concerts.

This is what we spent our lives trying to prevent, and here we are loving it.

It turns out we kinda missed those moments of crass comments and juvenile antics. And it turns out, sometimes we need to bitch about a girlfriend, or seek advice, or finally open up in some totally sappy way and express how in love we are. How scared we feel. How trapped, how fulfilled, how loved, how smothered, how blessed, how cursed.

And no eyes are scanning the bar for the female form.

And no one is dying to run off to a party.

Its just boys playing darts.

And its sad we had so many moments like this before and took them for granted.

And now I understand those fraternal organizations with their silly fez caps.

And I look forward to driving their little cars.

They're pretty bad-ass. Like a Power Wheels for adults.

Pow Pow Power Wheels! Now I'm drivin' for real!

False identities.

2005-10-03T12:46:00.000-04:00

Saturday was sad. My girl and I had tickets to go see the Pixies, Gang of Four, DFA 1979, etc. at the Across the Narrows show, but after spending the better part of a week horribly sick in my pajamas in my bed, we decided it was best if she headed back to her motherland where healthcare is free rather than sending her to a doctor here without insurance.

Suddenly I had an extra ticket and it was surprisingly hard to give it away. Eventually my new roommate, M. took it. He and I jumped on the train and made our way to Coney.

We arrived to a barely populated boring minor league baseball stadium, with only the barest of refreshments. nachos, beer, and whatever else you'd find at a ball game....and all way overpriced.

After being informed there was no re-entry, we felt very trapped and mad at The Man. When cigarettes ran out, we got desperate.

I spotted a guy from one of the bands that had already played and ran up to him.

"Listen. I know you can get out and get back in. So here's the deal. You are going to go buy us cigarettes."

So the dude looks me up and down and tells me that he is actually about to take off and just hands me his "TALENT" all access pass.

M. takes it and escapes to the outside world coming back with a bag full of beer and smokes. the beer runs out too quickly, so he gets more. That runs out. we invade the backstage, but can't find "our" dressing room. Finally M. caves and goes out to by whiskey.

Before I know it, the two of us are shitfaced. My girlfriend had given me specific instructions to make sure that M. found a ladyfriend. M. doesn't like how he looks in glasses, so socially he wanders around a bit blind, relying on the eyes of his friends to spot girls he thinks might be cute. The crowd wasn't his style, but in a fit of boredom, we chose a group of three girls. M. barely said a word before the three saw his pass and were putty in his hands. All four quickly took off to watch Gang of Four from back stage. One of them even ruthlessly ditched her boyfriend without so much as a "be back in a bit." The poor boy looked so young, furthering my belief that the girls were young too.

The whiskey kept entering M. and I spent the night sloshing about with him, hiding from guards under the stage as the Pixies played 3 feet above our heads.

The girls no doubt thought M. was in a band and lavished him with attention. At one point I saw him on his back with one of the young ladies on top of him in full get-it-on makeout position.

Then I blacked out.

Then it gets fuzzy and I remember M. and I narrowly avoiding a brawl with some Coney locals on our way to the Subway.

And I remember M. the next morning saying, "Man, I didn't even ask that girl her name. She woulda let me taken a dump on her if I wanted to. All because of that one dumb piece of laminated paper around my neck."

And I remembered why so many friends of mine started bands.

And I felt bad about this girl who no doubt went home to google the band she thought M. was in only to see a different boy in the picture.

And I just wish I had stayed sober enough to actually remember the Pixies.

I know I know, fashion is so two weeks ago.

2005-09-28T11:51:00.000-04:00

A couple years back my parents and I were watching the footage of when our house was demolished after it was nearly torn in half by an earthquake in 1989.

There the three of us were standing there in early 1990 as the house that I had grown up in, the house they built, was ripped apart by bulldozers and tractors.

My mom turned to my dad and said, "What the hell were thinking with that shirt?"

A little over a decade later and my dad's bright orange and green shirt did look absolutely ridiculous.

"Mom, it was 1990, we were all wearing obnoxiously bright colors."
-
I woke up this morning and found my roommate up earlier than usual semi-frantically searching the internet for something.

"I just realized its Fall and I haven't gotten any new boots yet."
-
I need new shoes as well. The ball of my foot is literally touching the concrete when I walk. It gets sore.
-
I peaked over her shoulder to see what styles she was into this year. Later, I cross -referenced with my "fashion forward" friend to get the inside scoop.
-
"I will be wearing them because a big look right now is short
skinny jeans so the detail of the boot is shown, it's a variation of the
jean tucked into the boot thing, but cooler.

Most people would think that shoe is kind of ugly but when you put it on
with skinny jeans it looks great, totally modern.

Another good look is a boot with a lot of detail, like a gray boot with
laces that go all the way around the boot.

You also can't go wrong with last year's black slouch boot. Heeled or flat.

But flat, short and slouchy (continuing the summer boot trend) is probably
the most trend forward look without being risky."
-
Fashion is 100% aesthetics. Maybe not 100%. PETA tries to throw in some ethics. Others some function. But for the most part, its simply about looking good.

But how can shoulder pads look good on a girl one year, and seem so awful another?

How can the opinions on high-waisted pants and pleats change so drastically so quickly?
-
Is there no such thing as true beauty? an objective sense of aesthetically pleasing form?
-
Is it just a constant search for the new? Do we get bored?
-
You get sick of stripes so you mix it up with some plaid.
-
Everyone has short skirts so you wear long to stand out.
-
separate yourself from the crowd to be noticed.
-
We all need to feel different.
-
But in the right way.
-
Or maybe our species needs a sense of progress.
-
Stagnation is depressing.
-
We change to feel alive.
-
We change looks as our continuing experiences change us.
-
It doesn't feel right to wear a cocktail dress after a hurricane.
-
Finally women fought back and can feel liberated enough to express their inherent sexuality.
-
Welcome the bikini.
-
Maybe.
-
I have a friend who claims that eventually your fashion stops changing and that whenever you see someone wearing something out of date, you can pinpoint the year that they were the happiest. That the day you finally love yourself the most, you stop searching for a new pair of boots.
-
Just a theory.
-
Maybe thats what happens with old people.
-
Or maybe they are just tired of the hustle and hassle.
-
I understand the business of fashion. Clothes actually do last but this is capitalism and we need our economy to grow at a continually growing rate so we create need when things are unneeded. Clothing companies need to sell more clothes to people who don't really neeed new clothes. magazines need to write new articles about new trends so that they can get money from advertisers to make a new issue.
-
But this was happening long before that.
-
Did the puritans wear those silly hats to create a sense of identity?
-
The hasids in my neighborhood seem pretty content with their look.
-
Does it ever bother you that the boots you love today, you will hate tomorrow?
-
Aren't you sick of cringing at your outfits in old photos?

or do you laugh?

or do you still think, "damn that was a good outfit" even if you would never get caught dead wearing it today?
-
How can you stay committed to a lover if you can't stay committed to a shoe?
-
The shoe won't change.
-
But people do. Sometimes it doesn't work, but sometimes it does.
-
Like with my parents. With new interests. New friends. And of course, a new house.
-
Still there together, just in different clothes and older skins.
-
And by the way Mom, I'm pretty sure you bought Dad that shirt.

A paraphrased thought from a friend:

2005-09-20T12:42:00.000-04:00

"Whenever I come to Williamsburg and I see the girls in baby doll dress, boys in polo shirts like the ones they wore in kindergarten, playing kickball in the park, and co-opting the kitchy aesthetic of their own youth with more sincerety than irony, I can't help but wonder, did our generation have the greatest childhood ever? One so good that we never want it to end. Or one so bad that we feel the need to try to do it again the right way?"

My guess is one that was too damn easy, or one where the only thing greater than the pleasures of our youth was our sense of entitlement and the feeling that we deserved even more.

The island of youth.

2005-09-20T11:39:00.000-04:00

I rarely find myself downtown anymore. I live in Brooklyn, work in east midtown, and the closest I get is when I pass under it on the train. I thought I'd really miss it, but I think after 3 years of school and another 3 working there, I got my fill. Sometimes a need for some new clothes, or a visit to a friend draws me down, and recently, such things have been happening with more regularity. So after an extended break from life south of 14th st, I've been coming back down.

I'm shocked by the new fancy buildings and restaurants, but not surprised. I've seen enough change, enough things to come and go that I don't expect any sense of permanence in the city. I don't get mad when neighborhoods start to change because I don't think they ever stopped changing.

But besides the change, things look different. The dirty streets and younger population that seemed so typically New York now seems so off to me. I've gotten way too used to those clean midtown streets. Sure, my part of Brooklyn is still nothing but dog shit and chicken bones, but I forgot that there was still any grime left in manhattan. I thought they finally finished that shopping mall.

But more than just some gum and grafiti, what hits me the most are two things. First, the comical disappearence of the business suit, which coveres 90% of the men on one side of the street, and almost none on the other. And second...the age. The average age of the normal street person just plummets. All of a sudden, I feel old. I walk through midtown and stil feel like a kid. I stand in line behind bankers and business men 10-20 years my senior, to being the guy 5 years older than the barely legal girl in front of me at the falafel joint.

I brought this up to my friend who reminded me that I live in Williamsburg, where besides the Poles to the North, and the Hasids and Latinos to the East and South, everyone very neatly fits into a 22-32 age frame, and that the homogeny is so strong that I just don't even notice age, and that at least the East Village has those sad 40 year olds who still live and look like they think they are in their twenties.

And then I thought, "wait...I am considering people in their 40's old." Thats the age of my oldest siblings." My mom is writing me emails about the death of her friends and how my dad thinks he is the next one to go out out of their social circle. Sure, I see little ol' ladies on the streets sometimes, but for a country that is supposed to have the majority of its population hitting retirement age any day now, the New York that I see is preposterously young.

Maybe they are all hiding out in the Upper East Side, or maybe they've all fled the city long ago, but it really just hit me that New York, in general, seems to be in a state of complete denial when it comes to aging and death.

I think being around the elderly forces you to put things in a better perspective. You witness the decay of the body, the beauty of long long long marriages, and a sense of legacy. You think, what do I want to leave behind? Have I made anything better since I've been here on this planet? I think without that, you get so caught up in your youth, your NOW, and this helps the culture create the sense of importance to the trivial. Fashion, music, etc. They are fancies of youth. Things like that don't seem too important when you are seeing cancer and bones shriveling with age. Reality shows and book readings. Gallery openings and celebutante birthday parties. Comedy clubs and new ad campaign launches. Those things ride at the top of the list here and I think thats only possible because the city has succeeded so well at keeping a lot of the larger (and scarier) issues of humanity hidden from sight. Like a pack of animals leaving the elderly behind, its like there is some secret barge we ship the old people out on to go rot on some island out in Long Island sound, out of sight and out of mind.

How else could we go on convincing ourselves that such silly things matter so much?

But death doesn't sell and strappy shoes do. And thats our job. To aggrandize hemlines to keep our economy pumping along so that one day we can all afford the medications needed to keep us alive while we're alone forgotten and dying on that island in the sea.

And my goddamn bike was stolen.

2005-09-19T09:40:00.000-04:00

Some days I get really sick of the Sex and the City type girls that flood this magazine office. The girls that spend all their time talking about expensive shoes and the men that may one day marry them. For a while I thought maybe I hated them because they'd never be interested in a boy like me, because if that show ever taught me anything it was that, as a man in NYC, you had to be rich, handsome, and famous. I am none of those things, but now these girls have the validation that obsessing over dresses and demanding such perfection from men is perfectly reasonable. But oh God, if I have to overhear one more conversation about Sienna Miller of the celebrity du jour, I may just go on a killing rampage. That god for the model castings happening feet away from my desk. It helps ease the pain.

But really. Do they get on my nerves because they'd never think twice about me? I'd consider that except that I now find myself completely head over heals with someone and need and want no one else. I think it has more to do with a hatred over that man that they all want. Their own Big or Aiden or whoever the fuck they are. I like to think that despite my lack of money or looks or nice clothes, that I could still compete with them on a fundamental basis.

And then I remember nights like Saturday, where I find myself face to face with the Publisher of one of our company's bigger magazines, and I'm standing there, insulting the writing, pompously claiming to be able to write circles around and of their piece of shit writers, spilling horrible secrets about a friend of theirs who once drunkenly suggested I donate my sperm to her, and on and on. And then it hit me. As I climbed over the pile of give away bags, stumbling and pulling down curtains searching for an entirely inappropriate place to pee in a side room. Its not the money. Its not the shoes. Its not those sort of things that make a Big more alluring than me.

Its behavior like this that divides the desirable from the rest.

And its pretty fucking clear which side of the line I'm on.

Labor Day Weekend

2005-09-06T11:07:00.000-04:00

After work, I rushed home, packed my bags and headed off to the airport. I wish I hadn't eaten beforehand because the burritos at this airport restaurant actually didn't look half bad.

So how long until we have a "Six Feta Under?"

A quick flight and not so quick drive later, I arrived in suburban Toronto around 3:30 am and passed out.

We spent the next day lounging around the pool.

She looks like an instructor teaching her "special" friend how to swim.

Now that he mastered the doggypaddle, the "special" friend gets a kiss! He likes it.

All that swimming made me tired.

After we re-energized, we showered and got dressed for the movies.

Two Christies are better than one.

Since she has a tendency to crash cars, I get to drive.

The best part about driving is that after the movie, you can control when you have "car problems" that require pulling over.

Teenage shenanigans followed after we pulled over, and I tried to snap a picture of her while her dress was in a compromising position...

Doh! Too far to the right!

She would have kicked my ass if I had actually gotten a pic, so maybe its best I missed.

The next morning we got up bright and early to head out to The CNE (Canadian National Exhibition) or "the Ex" as the locals call it.

I failed in the car but manages to get a picture of her in a towel as we got ready in the morning. Scandalous.

Us outside "the Ex".

I have no idea what the Ex is supposed to be celebrating. I think its just "Canada" in general. According to Christie it started out with the farmers, so when we entered, the first thing we saw was a giant inflatable cow. It had huge utters. Utters just begging for photographic hijinx. Unfortunately, the people at the Ex are wise to this and they had the thing roped off. Luckilly, with my masterful skills of forced perspective, I was able to get this pic:

"I am squishing your teet."

This goat smelled bad so we left the farmers section and headed over to the "crafts fair."

There we saw exciting booths dedicated to the amazing tools of Canadian Crafts, including:

Glue!

And chamois'! (To this guy's credit, he gave the most rousing speech I have ever heard about chamois.)

After the exciting crafts fair, we ducked in to watch a "Sky & Ice" show with figure skating and trapeze acts. We kept hoping someone would fall and someone did!! But it was a little girl and I felt sad for her.

So afterwards, we were kinda doubting the excitement possibilities of "the Ex" when what do we see?

SEGWAYS!!!

Christie gets her "George "Gob" Bluth II" on.

Afterwards we toured the fairgrounds and saw:

Skijumping.

and:

A human cannonball.

Later, I spied toys I wanted to win for Christie.

She loves her some Family Guy!

I tried my best but those Carnies are just too tricky.

So long CNE! Thanks for the memories.

After a quick trip home to re-energize, we headed back downtown to meet up with some of Christie's friends for food and drinks.

Thats me looking confused and Christie's friends Dan, and Eva to my side.

Christie and her friend Kat.

The waiter that Kat wanted.

Afterwards we went to Mod Club to get some dancing on.

Christie and Kat on the dancefloor.

Christie doing the robot.

Nightclubbing, we're night clubbing.

Afterwards, a tipsy Christie suggested we get some food before we drove back to her parent's place.

She took me to "Sneaky Dees" which reminded me of New York.

We ordered nachos and it was this giant pile of chips and toppings that came on a giant sized pizza dish.

We ate the whole thing.

We spent the next day recovering from our hangovers, watching movies, and giving me a much needed haircut. (I think my constant whining about my hair was about to make Christie's brain explode).

Pretty soon the weekend was over and it was time to drive me back to Buffalo to catch my flight home.

But first...

Niagra Falls!!!

We tried to take pictures, but the mist was just too much.

The mist did make pretty rainbows though:

Hurray for rainbows!

We even ducked inside to see if we could fake a good picture of us at the falls using a postcard.

We failed.

And then, sadly, it was time to take me to the airport and send me home. We didn't take any pictures of that part cuz it was sad.

The end.

Taking off.

2005-09-01T11:35:00.000-04:00

I am off for a few days to see some things I've been missing.

Have a happy commie day weekend.

Monogamy

2005-08-29T13:40:00.000-04:00

I've been noticing a change in the group social behavior in my recent outings. It seems like not that long ago, a vast majority of my freinds were single, whereas now, almost everyone has a boyfriend or girlfriend. I've noticed that this has had a strange effect on our nights out as those who are single keep pushing the group to go to more crowded bars, bigger parties, etc., whereas the ones in relationships tend to push for the more private dinner parties and emptier bars where the group can socialize within itself.

Basically, the single people want to go to crowded places where there is the greatest chance to meet someone and those involved with someone want to avoid all the chaos and noise of crowds and enjoy the company of their friends and lovers.

I've also noticed more often that many people who always followed the "bros before hos" adage of putting their friends first are slowly withdrawing into private relationships with their mates, myself included.

I feel like I am at stage two. Past the nights of partying and random makeouts, but before the stage of parties centered around couples or their kids. Its nice. As one female friend told me in response to my post about 29 year old girls, "we're not desperate, just tired." And I get that. continually dating new people, opening up, getting hurt, looking again, etc. etc. is tiring. We all eventually long to settle down and the bros before hos addage falls to pieces.

But recently, I have been having an ongoing conversation with one of my oldest friends about the evolutionary developement of monogamy. One obsession of evolutionary biologists is to figure out how monogomous humans naturally really are.

A good rule of thumb in the animal world is to compare the sizes of the males to females. The idea being that in polygomous societies (more often an alpha male controlling a harem of females), the men have to physically compete with each other, therefore the bigger you are, the better your chances of mating are. In more monogomous animals where mates pair up, there is less male to male competition and the males tend to be the same size as females.

Another interesting aspect of this is the idea of hidden ovulation. In animals where the females are obviously in heat, it is easier for the males to know when to fight over her and when to protect the females you have. Gorillas have this. The females have glands that swell up and get red, so all the guys know its time to fight for her. In humans and chimps, its never really obvious when a girl is ovulating, so it is near impossible to be able to defend her, or know when to fight as it would become a full time job, therefore, it makes sense to just settle with one female and stay with her the whole time, and as such, the size of men in relationship to the women decrease.

Birds have always been the prime example of monogamy as nearly all species of birds mate for life, but recent DNA testing on bird offspring show that among various species, 10-40% of the offspring maybe from a different father. Thus, there seems to be a discrepency between social monogamy and sexual monogamy. There are explanations for this, for both the males and females.

On the male side, it helps the survival chances of your offspring if you stick around and help raise them, but also a male really has to do nothing more than donate some sperm and take off to make a kid. Therefore, there seems to be some sort of balance between sticking around to raise your own kids, while also just trying to knock up some other chick without any sense of commitment to raising that child.

On the female side, a female really is benefitted by a male that will stick around and help raise the offspring, but as its hard for a male to tell if a child is really his, there is some motivation to try and go get knocked up by a mate that is physically superior and attempt to get your more loyal mate to help you raise it.

Comparing male to female sizes in humans, the discrepency hints that, biologically speaking, we should have some polygamist bents to our sexual behavior. A recent study came out last week, and I think it said something like 1 in 25 people were fathered by people other than who they think is their biological dad.

But. We are human beings. Homo Sapien Sapiens. The thinking thinking human. The ones who should have the logical abilities to outwit our desires. But as we all know, especially in terms of love and sex, our emotions often overpower our sense of logic, whether it be to stay with someone who is bad for us, or to stray from someone who is good for us.

All I know is that recently, more than ever in my life, I've been craving the company of one sole person and its getting harder and harder to pry me away from a night in with a movie for a night out on the town looking for love in all the wrong places.

birthday party

2005-08-28T12:17:00.000-04:00

New roommate (but old friend), Miss M. decided to celebrate her birthday on Friday night. We went to Cafe Gigi for some BYOB action.

Here is the birthday girl as we arrived, with friends Micki and Sam (who is giving her the book of unusual sexual practices for her birthday)

Miss M has too many close friends and we overran the place, taking up half the tables in the cafe. There was no way I could fit everyone in one photo, but I got about half of the biggest table in here:

This is like 1/3 of the group.

After the dinner, we went out looking for a bar. M as the birthday girl, was in charge, but she was a little too drunk to be any sort of leader at this point, and so after more than a few minutes straggling on the streets, we ended up at Hanger Bar which we had randomly ended up near.

Seeing Miss M on the phone and thinking she had a plan in the work, I asked what was going on. She seemed a bit confused:

Me: Hey, who were just on the phone with?
Her: My mom.
Me: But your mom is standing next to you.
Her: Oh. Then I have no idea.

Yeah. She was trashed. But everyone was.

I had forgotten my keys and not wanting to pressure the birthday girl with getting me inside our apartment, I opted to crash on Dru's couch when he decided to part with the group. Apparently I missed a fair bit of goodtimes involving using karaoke rooms as restrooms and tons of wasted money from spilled drinks from table top dancing. Alas, I was soundly asleep during all that, resulting in me being the least hungover of us the following day.

M. called me and said she had woken up at her friend's place (her old apartment), and was in Thompkins Square Park. Dru and I found her. She was laying on the grass staring up at the sky, covered with red wine stains and dirt, and laughing manically to herself. After brushing the dirt off her, the three of us met up with Sam & Michelle for some brunch.

After ambling around the hood for a bit, we decided to knock back a few at bar on St. Marks.

We sat outside and watched the people walk by. Somehow half the party from the night before ended up there. Not only friends, but even our sweet 19 year old waitress from the night before! Apparently she quit shortly after our party left her restaurant.

The girl in pink on the left was our waitress the night before.

I realized I hadn't been in a photo yet, so here is an out of focus self-portrait of me at the bar:

There was this group of older guys sitting near us and they had these younger girls climbing all over them. I noticed that they all had on Flipper shirts (the 80's SF punk band who made the seminal albume " Generic Flipper " in 1982).

Michelle turned to me and said, "I think that actually IS Flipper."

Here are the guys. (hard to see, I know).

and here is an old pic I found of the band:

It looks like them to me.

I got way too trashed and was home by 11pm. Doing half a dozen shots of jaeger mixed with free beer from a Bud promotion in the middle of the afternoon makes for an early night.

On my way home, I encountered this dude:

I had to step over him to get into the deli. Everyone was freaking out that he was dead. I saw he was breathing, heard that someone had called and ambulance and stood around waiting for a cab.

An ambulance came and they pulled the guy in the back and drove off. Everyone looked so relieved. then, like only 2 minutes later, the guy walks around the corner, shirtless, and starts lewdly shaking his gross naked and large belly at all the girls.

Way to fucking blow all the sympathy you had you dumbass.
Others took pictures as well and I will update as I get them.

Blah. Too hungover to write anything fun.

Bye.

I'd smoked my brain the night before

2005-08-24T09:34:00.000-04:00

I haven't walked into work with bloodshot eyes in a while. Every square I see is turning into a trapazoid as even my vision is sagging this morning. There's a whirling dervish in my tummy and I have more tangles than hair.

I had already downed a forty while continuing to make silly pictures (see below) for my far off friend by the time Blue arrived.

[thats me going "eek!" from when the Walrus smashed his face into the glass and I thought the aquarium was going to collapse.]

We drank more as we watched a vintage Wire performance on DVD.

And then we headed out.

Our first stop was a bar around the corner where we saw some girl stumbling around in a flapper outfit so we followed her in to find a band a'blazin'. And I mean a fucking band. Two to three drummers, and others on bongos, marching band drums, etc. surrounded by guitarists, bassist, numerous trumpeteers, saxiphonists, trombone players, and on and on. There were more people in the band than in the audience and they played a cacaphonous mess of horn blasts, not unlike a jazzier version of the sunshine funk that makes The Go! Team record the theme to the best day of your life.

After a couple numbers, we headed down to an old haunt that we used to frequent when we were roommates. Its changed owners and names a few times since then, but enough of the bar looked the same to immediately remind us of the days in years past when we'd get smacked out of our minds on H and go watch the local resident band (which wasAmbulance LTD). Our bodies began to quiver with anticipation as if they remembered the place and expected another taste for old time's sake. Fighting our cravings for old and terrible habits, we hid downstairs in the one place where you could smoke.

We shared cigarettes with some musician and his girlfriend, talking about the subtle genius of Kris Kristofferson (esp. Sunday Morning Coming Down, made famous by Johnny Cash), when what do they play on the PA? "Heroin" by the Velvet Underground. Fucking sadists.

We darted back to the bar and quickly downed another drink, Blue madly flicking at his vein the whole time.

The door guy for the backroom had abandoned his post, so Blue and I ducked in to see the final band.

Their midwestern mix of indie-AC/DC-ska-metal-James Brown style funk/soul wasn't the most amazing thing ever, but a whole lotta fun, but what really made us smile was all the synchronized dancing between the guitarist, the bassist, and the keyboardist. There's something about 3 boys from Madison busting into overly enthusiastic "running mans" in perfect syncronicity without missing a beat thats really quite fucking entertaining. All 8 people there had giant smiles on their faces. So if you're holding a birthday party any time soon, I highly recommend you book Awesome Car Funmaker if you wanna get that party started.

My Thursday

2005-08-19T01:39:00.000-04:00

Me: No, I don't have the credit card. My friend who is out of town ordered the food as a surprise.

Delivery Boy: I need the credit card.

Me: Can I pay for it in cash?

Delivery Boy: ok. Its $45

Me: I only have $35.

Delivery Boy: I have to call my manager.

Manager: I'm sorry there is nothing I can do.

Me: OK, I have her on the phone. Can she call you?

Manager: I'm sorry.

Friend: Tell her to call me!

Me: OK, I have her on the phone. Can she call you? She can give you
any information you need. She was just trying to do something nice for
me. She wants me to say she's sorry for the inconvience and she'd be
happy to call you directly.

Manager: I'm sorry.

Friend: Tell her to call me damnit! I told them in advance you
wouldn't have the card available.

Me: My friend is on the phone from out of town in my other ear. She
was just trying to do something sweet. Please can you let this slide?

Manager: I'm sorry.

Friend: ha. This is lame. They were told the deal before I made the
order. OOooo I have my foot in the pool. It feels so warm. It's like
90 degrees or something. damn pool heater.

Me: Please? My friend was just trying to do something nice.

Manager: We need to see the card.

Friend: Ahhhh!!!!! -SPLASH!!!!!-
(phone goes dead)

Me: Oh no!!!! I think my friend fell in the pool!!

Manager: What?

Me: My friend fell in the pool!!!!

Manager: Really? Oh my God. OK. Just tell the delivery boy to take out two of the beers and pay in cash.

makin' babies

2005-08-18T14:55:00.000-04:00

I had to almost laugh when Miss M. woke up early the other morning to go to the gym. What I mean by that is that her mom has been over a lot recently and despite being in her fifties, has the body of a 20 year old. I think Miss M. is set for life. She's one of the lucky ones for sure. Yes. Its that whole sitcom idea of checking out the mother to see how the daughter will turn out.

I wonder if girls do the same thing?

If they do, a quick look at my dad proves that I'm in trouble:

[my dad circa 1998, age 64, looking a bit like a beached sea mammal]

But I don't think girls are really too concerned with that. At least I hope not. My dad ain't winning me any points.

But one thing I've noticed they are more interested in is baby pictures. Maybe its just the maternal instinct in them, but more than that, I think the girls are interested in seeing what their future offspring will look like. I think for the most part its subconscious. I don't think they are consciously thinking, "he was cute as a kid, so we will have cute kids," but somewhere in that 90% of the brain we don't use, I think something is computing along those lines.

Babies are like puppies. Girls eyes widen up and after all the cues and "awwwww!s" end, they scream, "I want one!" And we all now how babies are made.

Or at least that is what this one girl told me once.

Like an excited child who just learned a new trick I ran off to tell my friend my new piece of knowledge about the ladies.

His response?

"Why do you think I have that picture of me as a baby taped to my bedroom door?"

So now I'm obsessed with the idea. And the more I think about it, the more disturbed I get. I mean, really, would a girl really be more inclined to have sex with me if she sees this?:

That's kinda wrong. But then again, maybe sex and love isn't as much about your lover to a girl as it is to a boy. Maybe its about the future, and kids, and grandkids. And maybe, us boys aren't looking at the mothers to see how our ladies will shape up but to see if the girl looks mom-like enough for the babies we want to make with them.

Or maybe I'm full of shit. Maybe its just those big innocent eyes that look so harmless that causes one to let their guard down. They just see cuteness and want to hug and cuddle. And all that snuggling can feel so warm and nice, and all of a sudden they feel so trusting, and with all that closeness and trust, boning is just one sexy look away.

Oh, and unrelated: while I was hunting down photos for this post I got a bit bored and made this:

Bitch stole my haircut.

[Thanks to Christie for hosting the gif]

WWJD - What Would Jesus Draw?

2005-08-17T08:53:00.000-04:00

I drew this when I was five. If I remember correctly, it was supposed to be a simple statement of fact. The best part is that I remember not being able to write words, only letters, so my mom had to spell out all the words. She did it in that only half-paying attention manner that moms often resort to when watching over kids for too long. Now my parents have it framed in their bedroom.

As a side note, my sister who is 12 years older than me, went to art school a couple years later and made tee shirts with this image. I out grew mine and gave it to my girlfriend who used to wear it to the gym here in New York when she first moved here and once told me that she got shit for it every single time she worked out.

Jesus. He's always upsetting people. Even as a dead man.

2005-08-14T16:36:00.000-04:00

Like many others, I have become way too obsessed with StripGenerator. The make your own comic strip site. I didn't even leave the house Saturday night. My results are above. It should cycle through a dozen or so. You can click on it to make it bigger.

Its in the blood

2005-08-09T00:38:00.000-04:00

Describing it at a 90 year old blog, my dad sent me an excerpt of my Great Uncle's college diary. That is him on the left. The younger guy on the right is his little brother, my grandfather, "Papa J."

My favorite part was this from 1914:

Ever since last fall Mabel Terrel later commonly termed "Cherry Pie" did her durndest to try to rein me in. Needless to say she was not alone in her endeavors. Her two sisters Frances & Nina did most valiant service. Of course Frank and Papa and Mamma Terrell were all on the alert but nix on the comedy. Your Uncle Willie decided the pickin was too easy and was not looking for any child's play. Some of the tactics employed were exceedingly amusing at first to me but must add that later I grew rather disgusted. So much for that but am extremely glad that I am not as blind as some people. Moreover was told that if I attend Kansas University that I shall be treated to "Cherry Pie"if I happen around. Well I may accidently forget the invitiation or have important business elsewhere.

Also during the play practice Grace P. tried to alienate my affections. but again I must have been a hard ticket to deal with. Of course both of these girls are nice girls but not exactly the one for me. If I had not had one whom I esteemed higher in more than one way I might have been tempted to consider their Alien and Sedition Acts. But nix on the comedy again. I say when you have a nice girl whom you like change not the old one for a new for in changing you may discover that you have made a terrible mistake and then probably would be everlastingly too late. We had many a pleasant time together and by end of term felt as if we might be a little personal and found out to our astonishment that our thot's [sic] of each other were quite reciprocal.

Oh how little things change.

Been Gone a Bunch

2005-08-08T12:43:00.000-04:00

I've barely been home the past couple weeks. First there was the trip upstate for business where I got my ass kissed by clients and stayed in a fancy house with beer on tap and endless bottles of wine. It was so awesome, the fact that it was haunted didn't really phase me. One lady from work also on the trip was pretty freaked out though and moved all the rocking chairs into the hallway since that's where the ghost likes to show up. I passed out naked and drunk as fuck on my floor and awoke to someone pounding on my door reminding me I was officially working.

The worst part was when I almost got arrested when my bag was searched at the train station and they found all the prescription uppers that were obviously not mine. Good thing some guy left his bag unattended when he went to get pizza cuz that really freaked out those bored Albany cops and they left me alone with my not quite street drugs and I boarded the train before they could get back to me.

Then, the day after my return to the city, I took an impromtu flight back upstate and crossed the border into the great white north to spend a couple fabulous days hanging out in a pool, watching movies, and going to see DFA 1979, who rock pretty damn hard when they want to. It was the most relaxing and happy few days I've had in a long long time.

Then back to the city for a couple days of work before heading off to the Hamptons to stay in the creepiest fucking house ever. There were endless cabinets crammed full ancient toys:

The toys, red lit Austin Powers room, the "orgy room," and way too many animal sculptures and leopard skin furnishings made the place seem like a cross between Silence of the Lambs and Neverland Ranch. the pervy house owner learing at all the girls in bikinis didn't help much, but hey, if I had a couple topless girls in my hottub, I'd totally jump in too.

But for all the nakedness [totally SFW picture of us skinnydipping] and excessive alcoholism and the beauty of the Hamptons beaches, I was still quite sad, being the only one not part of a couple on the trip and greatly missing my glorious northern neighbor who was such a fine host the weekend before.

So yeah. a post with no insights other than its amazing how much you can miss someone who only so recently became a part of your life. A year ago, these trips with free beer taps and naked girls in pools would have seemed like heaven but now I'd trade them all just to curl up and watch a movie with that special one who eats way too much popcorn.

But in other exciting news, my dear friend Miss M. has moved in to my apartment and she brought her lovely pooch with her.

He's totally the new Spuds MacKenzie.