Wednesday, January 02, 2013
Like the sloth like man that I am, you may have taken note that I only wrote once in 2012. I was busy or something. Mainly watching this all time classic video about sloths (http://www.hulu.com/watch/17201)...678,456 times. That really left little to no time for writing anything, especially when my other time was dedicated to my live, one man show that was me reenacting the hit TV sitcom, "Perfect Strangers". Switching between Cousin Larry Appleton and Balki on stage can really wreak havoc on one's perception of reality.
Now that the world did not end and I continue to be flummoxed by how people prefer to be greeted (most of the time I avoid this confusion of handshake? bro hug? full hug? is this lady going to kiss my cheek or the air above my shoulder? fist bump? eskimo kiss? by simply waving at people and then disappearing), I have decided to come up with UNIVERSAL GREETINGS TO BE USED BY ALL.
Man greeting a man, professional setting: Gladiator handshake, right hand to right forearm. This helps to avoid sweaty hands, weird finger grabs, any attempt at tickling, etc. Also, it's just straight up manly. Who doesn't want to feel like Russell Crowe in Gladiator every time they greet someone?
Man greeting a woman, professional setting: The man should dip the woman as if ballroom dancing (or depending on sizes of those involved, the woman should dip the man. It's what Darwin would have suggested as evolution). This sets the tone and demeanor for interaction as if to say, "We are co working together, but also, maybe we should ballroom dance occasionally. It happens in a lot of musicals, and those are based in ULTRA REALITY."
Woman greeting a woman, professional setting: First of all, don't have a power struggle. You are both women in the workplace. Well done! A hundred years ago that would have been a hilarious sentence unless I were talking about the laundry factory or whatever the fuck it was women could get a job doing in 1913. Also, don't get too caught up in the admiration of the way the men in the room just dipped you. Now look into each others eyes and gently caress your counterparts cheek (right hand right cheek). That way, as you move forward on your work, you can remember that you are the gentler sex, and that you probably have soft hands from all the lotion you are always applying. THEN, and only then should you talk about who dips best in the office.
Man greeting a man, non professional setting: Don't touch each other. Procure a shot of booze and drink it together. No weak ass shit either. This will not work at all should you avoid touching and then order a couple of Sea Breezes.
Man greeting a woman, non professional setting: Don't touch each other. Procure a shot of booze and drink it together. No weak ass shit either. This will not work at all should you avoid touching and then order a couple of Sea Breezes.
Woman greeting a woman, non professional setting: Don't touch each other. Procure a shot of booze and drink it together. No weak ass shit either. This will not work at all should you avoid touching and then order a couple of Sea Breezes.
If it's not professional, have a GOTTAMN drink. Get to know one another.
Thank you for adhering to these new policies.
Saturday, January 07, 2012
"Winter" has arrived in full effect in Chicago, but only if its full effect is a haphazard 25 degree day now and then. As I write this, it is currently in the high 40's and yesterday, it was in the 50's. This sort of winter was not one of the reasons that I have come to love Chicago, or realistically, anywhere that still has four actual seasons. That was one of the things that FREAKED me out about my very brief time living in California. Rain was apocalyptic and a drop to 68 degrees from the normal 72 was cause for people to wear sweaters and ask if I wanted to "curl up by a fire". Fuck no I did not want to curl up by a fire. If actual winter does not happen in Chicago this winter I will be pissed off. Without true winter in Chicago I would have missed some of these great life moments:
1) Getting to leave work early last winter on the blizzard day only to get bombed with co workers and fall through snow drifts on my way home LATE that night. 4 people, $800 tab, albeit in the financial district. But still, we did work.
2) Getting to walk down the middle of a deserted Halsted with Wrigley beagle completely immersed in snow. Despite the fact that the drifts were most certainly more than capable of covering her entire body, she loved jumping in them and snorting a bunch of snow and then sneezing. Her actions were the basis for the movie Blow.
3) Several years ago, when still living in Oak Park, we lived near a man made sledding hill. After a Saturday evening of fun, several of us had gone out to breakfast Sunday morning and when we were driving back from said meal, we were driving past the sledding hill. At that point I said, "Who dares me to roll down the hill with all the sledders?" As anyone who knows me will attest, when I ask to be dared, I'm pretty much just saying I will go do something. So, I marched to the top of the hill, told several little kids, "Time to get my roll on" then proceeded to roll down the hill and then run away back into an awaiting car. It's one of those moments that I imagine those kids and their accompanying parents that day still talk about whenever they go sledding, see snow, hear the word roll or see some big guy who they think has slight mental disabilities.
So Chicago, or Mr. Winter, or whomever the fuck is in charge (Tom Skilling? The Empire Carpet Guy? Poseidon?) Time to get the winter on. Now. There's not much time because by the time March 20 rolls around which is a glorious day thanks to me being born, it needs to be spring...with animals getting it on, flowers blooming and all that other spring crap.
While I am ranting like a lunatic at things that, as far as I know, do not read this blog, can anyone explain the weird new Toyota commercial that exists? At least, I think it is a Toyota commercial. I will try to explain it:
A bloated, weighty Kelly Clarkson is seen eating a corn dog and funnel cake and a Pandora music app button pops up, she tries to eat that too. Chris Berman, he of ESPN fame, is turned on and wants to get it on with her in a Toyota Camry (product placement alert!) But only if his creepy bro pals, James Lipton from Inside the Actors Studio (and better parodied on SNL by Will Ferrell) and Andrew Zimmer from Bizarre Foods (who says things on his show like "this slime texture that tastes like stale cat litter is really intriguing to me.... gotta love Korean food!") can ride in the backseat and watch. Berman tosses Clarkson the keys, she tries to catch them in her mouth like a skittle, but fails and instead she gets in the car and they all begin singing, what I assume is a Clarkson pre coital love song. I just wonder who she was going to eat when she was hungry. What an odd, odd ad. I am not really sure what is being advertised. Can someone explain?
Saturday, November 05, 2011
1. The primary footprint is a measure of our direct emissions of CO2 from the burning of fossil fuels including domestic energy consumption and transportation (e.g. car and plane). We have direct control of these.
2. The secondary footprint is a measure of the indirect CO2 emissions from the whole lifecycle of products we use - those associated with their manufacture and eventual breakdown. To put it very simply – the more we buy the more emissions will be caused on our behalf.
So, I have obviously been doing some things right in making my footprint more awesome, like:
-Leaving my stovetop burners on 24/7
-Leaving my oven on at a balmy 400
-Heat and or AC running all the time...once it reaches peak heat in the apartment, I crank up the AC...and the windows are always open so everything has to work extra hard
-I have installed several diesel engines to run things like my alarm clock, toothbrush (the taste is odd), and to help me lift my arms up in the air.
-I burn a shit ton of coal. Like more than the Southern Hemisphere. If I don't have a nice sooty fire going at all times, I wouldn't be doing my part. I also torch a lot of Prii in my spare time.
However, I have obviously been doing many things that are DECREASING my carbon footprint. I turn lights off when I leave a room, shut off faucets when I am not running the water, and worst of all, use public transit. I have a lot of work to do and therefore need to ride around in either old pickup trucks that spew out fuel or build a custom truck that gets 1 mile to the gallon. Either way, I'm gonna tear this shit up and my footprint will be the carboniest of them all, and maybe even some other chemical elements will be involved.
Also, why is the big trend in candy for the candy to feature "air"? I have seen many commercials for Hershey's chocolate featuring air. Should it cost a lot less since you don't get as much chocolate? Air is free. I mean, you don't want any of my air for free, but still. Come on ridiculous trends. Shut the fuck up.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Since I moved from the hustle and bustle of Lincoln Park in Chicago to the ironic facial haired land of skinny jeans, Logan Square, I have additionally had to adapt to living in a building with only one washer and one dryer. This would not be a big deal if it were located in my apartment, but alas, it is located in the basement and I am on the third floor. As a man who amasses about 145 pounds of laundry per time that I want to do my laundry, I have finally reunited with one of my favorite places; the laundromat. (Longtime readers of this spot will know about this love that I have for laundromats...http://tradwayone.blogspot.com/2007_09_01_archive.html read the Sep 20, 2007 entry) I, fortunately for all involved parties, have been keeping track of these trips to the laundromat, which in my hood, is called "Scrub a Dub"
Scrub a Dub 08/03/11
This place definitely used to be something much greater. A laundromat that other laundromats aspired to be like. I mean for God's sake there is a fluroescently lit "Kid's Korner" which now sits in an odd state- featuring what looks like the stuffed animal crane game and one of those recliner massage chairs. I had no idea kids were into those or needed that sort of relaxation, of course, the children in this neighborhood surely have a more difficult existence than the one I think of when I recall being a child (which mainly includes eating a SHIT TON of popsicles and trying to climb trees. Also being an asshole. Seems not much has changed. Except for the popsicle and tree climbing) The children around here might, in fact, actually be sent to do laundry. Anyways this facility is equipped with maybe 60 industrial dryers and the same amount of washers. Currently the machines are just under capacity and by that I mean maybe 12 are in use between myself and 3 other patrons. There are some dead plants, 6 old ass TV's playing nothing and the saddest looking employee in the world sitting behind a counter drinking a tamarind flavored drink. Maybe that's what's making her so sad? She couldn't get a normal flavor but rather got a great deal on some tamarind flavor and who the fuck even knows what that is? Everything here screams Miss Havisham's once great now dilapidated estate in Great Expectations, and I half expect to meet a hipster named Pip here sometime. I will ask him his thoughts on tamarind sodas.
Behind the counter with the girl in the tamarind induced depression, more signs of previous glory shine; a soda fountain featuring the very best Royal Crown products as well as a nacho cheese dispenser of some sort. Both look decidedly aged and aged about as well as someone who has been smoking Lucky Strikes since they were 12 (Ednas...these people are always named Edna. And they smell. Always). A bulletin board near the counter features, rather than neighborhood goings on, a number of rants by a man named Eugene. I guess we all need our forums. Eugene has chosen his and reaching a large number of people does not seem to be a goal of his. It would be like if Martin Luther had nailed his 95 Theses to a corkboard in a seldom used bathhouse of Wittenburg. AND also if Martin Luther did not care about religious reformation but instead about, and I quote, "has been spreading all that dog shit all around which is still day ruining to step in." Really Eugene? That's all it takes to ruin your day?
Scrub a Dub 08/15/11
There is a new owner! An ostentaciously dressed white man seemingly yelling his business plan at a grizzled older Hispanic fellow. Evidently number on on the plan is to "maintain these goddamned machines." From this I assume he just read Jack Welch's memoirs with a plan like that. Number one on grizzled old Hispanic man's plan is to try and politely leave this shouted at synergistic nightmare of a conversation. Sadly it seems he has merely the phrases he has picked up from Peter Francis Geraci commercials and Ronco rotisserie ads whirling through his mind, and he knows that either telling him about Chapter 13 bankruptcy or mesothelioma or "setting it and forgetting it" just wouldn't be right.
Scrub a Dub 09/10/11 "sempre con mio"
The changes that were promised are being made to return the Scrub a Dub to its glory days. $40 at a time. There is new shrubbery- roses and tiny ornamental grasses intricately planted in the beautiful gravel surrounding the parking lot. The counter inside, which as I mentioned previously was evidently there to sell fountain drinks and nachos to the starving, laundering masses, now is fully stocked with a dazzling array of laundry products. Big changes, right? The last time I was here I failed to write a log since I was more hungover than Benjamin Franklin on any morning, but had I done so I surely would have mentioned the number of women that were here inappropriately wearing leggings. If I wanted to watch sea lions mate, I would go to the zoo or sealionxxxaction.gov (an Al Gore sponsored site). These womean should be especially mindful of holes in their leggings. Realistically, the whole legging movement never should have started in the first place, but its new universal presence makes things even worse. I mean, if dudes started wearing jock straps outside their pants, I'd hope there would still be the sensible many who never gave in to this trend. Although I know a number of my friends would strap them on outside their embroidered fancy ass jeans and Ed Hardy or Affliction shirts and fedoras. Leggings as well as outer jock straps would just look silly on everyone, broham sandwich.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
No more than two doors down from my building as I loudly crooned, "next stop is the Eeeeeassssst siiiiiddddeee moooooooteelllllllll" I saw a group of young ladies struggling to move their very drunk and very passed out friend from their front stoop. Now it being just past midnight and me having just loudly sounded (more than likely) just like Nate Dogg (RIP. Hold on, I have to go pour out some liquor) I just walked on by, leaving them to their struggles.
As I walked into my apartment however, I did some quick physics calculations:
Drunk person passed out= drunk person's normal weight times 78
Once I did this calculation and realized that the girls trying to move their passed out friend were the types who might complain about having to carry pretty much anything for more than ten feet, I knew I had to, at the very least, walk back over and offer to help out. This was definitely going to be a kind gesture, but it was not very well thought out.
For one, I have never been, and will never be a young girl. I don't have a frame of reference for a 6'4" giant hulk of a very good looking man to walk up to me after midnight in my neighborhood. I have no clue what it is like to walk around at night and feel frightened with every passing person (mainly because you can always bark at anyone. try it, womenfolk.) mainly because most everyone is smaller than me, and probably a little less crazy.
So I ventured back over and approached the three young women trying to move their friend. As I walked up in a totally unthreatening manner, I said, "Hi, as I walked past before I couldn't help but notice that you were having some trouble moving your friend. Would you like some help?"
As I mentioned before, this was uncalculated and this is where I may as well have been Butch from Teen Mom, the cocaine loving, mullet sporting creepy fuck and walked up to them and said, 'Hey, you girls like to party?"
The girls seemed gracious and creeped out all at once as their eyes darted back and forth to one another. One of them spoke up, "Oh thank you so much, but she's just sleeping."
I replied, again with no couth whatsoever, "Oh right, 'sleeping' (laughing) I love 'sleeping' outside after a fun Friday night. Listen, I know how hard it is to move a passed out person."
Right then I wished I could have taken my words back, because stepping outside the situation and assessing it, I may as well have offered them GHB and asked if they all wanted to come over.
The girls continued to fidget nervously, obviously hoping I would turn and sprint away. "Thank you so much for your offer, but I think we can handle it."
"Ok," I said, as I smiled and turned away.
Lesson learned. Let drunk people move their friends about on their own, unless you are asked to help.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
There’s poison in that jar? I thought I was allergic to pickles. What’s in the jar with the skull and crossbones? Well, that’s mayonnaise It's a decoy
The reason I started this writing today with a direct excerpt from Wikipedia is that the world has taken on a wild new tilt lately. But no matter what, it's always crucial to remember as many Will Ferrell quotes as possible, think about squirrels doing dances to hip hop songs, and waiting for that day when senility creeps in and you can curse around little kids and pee in your pants.
Additionally perspective is always needed unless you want to always have only the most EXTREME points of view possible, which might be good if you are a snowboarder. But nothing in life is always "the most difficult", at least not yet. Wait until the machines take over. That will undoubtedly be more difficult, when you are forced to convince a car that you, in fact, cannot give it a ride somewhere. (Reference: Extreme Overdrive, honestly this will give you a better idea of some perspective for any current life situation)
In conclusion, I leave you with this brilliant quote:
Charlie: Do wasps make honey?
Dennis: No, wasps do not make honey.
Charlie: All right, well, I’m gonna check it out anyway; there could be something delicious in here that wasps do make, and I want that.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
BUT, contingency plans never hurt anyone.
If the world should end, I am going to hell. I've laughed at a few too many situations I probably should not have. It's ok, most of you are probably going to hell too. Resignation to this fact will make the commute that much easier.
I am concerned about making sure I meet up with some awesome people for all eternity. So, the plan is this:
Everyone who wants to have fun, meet in the room in hell where all you do is get hammered all day everyday. The catch is, you wake up every morning tired, and with the worst (non puking) hangover you have ever had. And this being Hell, there is no headache reliever, Gatorade, or greasy food to get you back on track. Just more booze. That's what makes this room great. It's the place to be after around 4pm everyday. Mornings suck, but a three Bloody Mary's with a Jameson back should get you right back where you need to be.
Good plan? See everyone there.
Some other thoughts:
Facts about the nfl lockout for the casual nfl fan:
Over 90% of nfl players will end up getting stabbed during the lockout, typically in a domestic disturbance/strip club/ you said this nail salon was our little secret what is tmz doing outside skirmish.
You will see Peyton Manning and Drew Brees at Walgreens around the country bringing their commercial pitches to you in person, usually by hiding things in your cart or basket in hopes that you purchase them.
Now is the best time to expect seeing a local NFL star at your nearby cash title loan, because hey, a fully loaded Range Rover isn't going to feed an entourage.
My favorite conversation stopper lately is saying, "I don't want to get political with you." This really offers a segue away from anything, especially since politics are typically not being discussed. But hey, don't like the way the "where should we grab lunch" conversation is going? Treat the person you are talking to like they are Pat Buchanan talking about actual aliens being more allowed in this country then an 8th generation Mexican child. Say it like you are offended, then you pick the lunch spot.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
First of all, may I laud your decision to get around on foot. Way to put into good use that dinky pedometer you got from Mc Donald's. Your 2011 health goals should be narrowly accomplished around 2015. I do realize that your foot traffic is actually about more than that, it's the easiest way to get around, and public transportation systems have yet to find a way for you to latch your car on the front of their buses and trains, instead merely your bikes.
However, I must find you at fault for a number of egregious errors in the way that you walk about, so carelessly and without thought of those around you. Many of you are now thinking, "Oh wait, I hope this is not something mean about me!" Well, it probably is. Others are thinking, "I learned how to walk when I was (fill in age...2 to 15), this cannot have to do with me." Well, it probably does.
Walking on a sidewalk full of people is much like driving on a busy street. You must be aware of those around you and follow general rules:
1. Walk on the correct side of the sidewalk. This isn't goddamn Europe, stay to the right.
2. Do not cut people off.
3. Do not suddenly stop, invariably to take a picture of something, scratch your butt, or send a text message.
Easy enough right? But no, too complex it seems since I find people cutting me off, stopping, or coming at me head on even as I hug the far right side of the sidewalk.
To people who walk the wrong way on the sidewalk: I will knock you over. I have been playing this game of chicken for years. Go ahead walk determinedly directly at me, I will not stray from my course. You will. And then you will feel stupid. Or better yet, bump into my shoulder. That'll teach me.
To people who cut other pedestrians off: Listen, if you know you have to turn left, and you are driving, do you make your way to the far right turn lane? Then veer across all traffic? Unless your name is Sarah Plovanich, this is not the maneuver you try. You get in the left turn lane and go from there. Same thing goes on foot. If you have to enter your building on the left ten yards after crossing the street, do not cross the street standing to the far right of the group of people crossing en masse. Unless you are Barry Sanders. Then weave your way through. You are awesome.
Barry Sanders, who can do whatever he wants walking around.
To people who stop suddenly: This is a fine move if you are walking down some shaded boulevard, collecting your thoughts and admiring architecture. It does not fly when you are in a pack of 30 people walking the same direction. Furthermore, I am not Barry Sanders, much more Jerome Bettis. Stop within a foot in front of me, chances are I will knock your shit over, as I lack the spin moves and jukes necessary to avoid you. Then, don't have the gall to shoot ME a dirty look. You stopped. My crime was merely walking behind you. Which, last I checked, was not a crime.
1. People with umbrellas
2. People swinging their arms/bags
People with umbrellas, this might be a personal thing between people of a taller height like myself and you, but please be more courteous nonetheless. When the person of the average height is walking around with an umbrella, guess where the ends of the umbrella generally end up? Somewhere around the level of my eyes and face. Therefore I have almost considered calling in "fearful" to work on rainy days. Because I view an umbrella not as protection from rain, but rather as a dangerous device that will one day cause me great ocular damage. Seriously. Maybe I need some safety goggles.
And last, but certainly not least, people who swing either one or both of their arms so widely out from their body they create a road block so that I am unable to pass them. These people always walk slowly, and their arms always swing at a level that would surely strike my crotch if I were to get too close. Also, stop swinging around your bags.
Get the message pedestrians of the world?
1. I will knock you over.
2. I WANT to knock you over.
3. Don't poke out my eyes or hit my junk.
Timothy C. Radway
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The real reason I needed to speak out today was not to promote this album, but rather to speak on an important subject, and especially important given the fact that it is February 10th: Halloween.
I am not sure how this happens every year, especially given its consistent date, but Halloween always sneaks up on me. And as such, the week before Halloween you always find me in just about the same place; no concrete plans, awful costume ideas which develop one after the other, and the awful fear that Sam Adams Oktoberfest will once again be gone, as hearty and malted as when it showed up conspicuously early in mid August. My plan choices usually consist of some melange of parties at friends of friends, trick or treating in the projects, me putting on a "costume" (which is usually some pants I have not worn in a long time and a silly hat) and staring down a bottle of whiskey, or watching reruns of Step by Step on ABC Family. The costumes are even worse; they are either so elaborate that even the most skilled Hollywood costume designer would have a tough time making them on such short notice (ideas like..."Oh, I will just dress as an Orc from Lord of the Rings," or "I will just whip together a Spongebob Squarepants costume ((which would end up with me looking something more like an IRS auditor))".
This week before Halloween is in direct comparison to the week following Halloween each year. November 3 or thereabouts, I know exactly what my costume will be for the next year (always something extremely witty, brilli ant, well designed, and easy to put together) and as far as venue goes, i always have exact plans for the next year at that point (although as goes for any holiday, should hugh hefner invite me to the mansion, i will be there. Especially for one of his legendary arbor day parties ((brought to you by arbor mist: arbor mist the number one wine for people confused as to what wine is or what it should taste like))
So, how will i avoid this next year you may ask? There are only a couple sure fire solutions: buy a shit ton of masks, or just get it over with and buy a unitard and tell people every year I am some different WWF (I refuse to say WWE, since when it was awesome, it was still the WWF) wrestler. This will cover costumes for years to come. I will wear these masks with the tuxedo that I own. Then I'll be classy spiderman, classy king kong, classy nixon, classy Andre the Giant, classy Ravishing Rick Rude, classy Doink, etc (and wrestling nerds, I don't give a shit that these people did not wear unitards....if you really think I would pay for an airbrushed pair of Spandex pants with my face on it, well, you might be correct, but regardless, the unitard has to have some use). Once these ideas were exhausted, I would be like 57 years old, and so busy flying around with my jetpack that I have little time to think about Halloween or anything but my successful futuristic career designing...ummm....something futuristic sounding, like koopelbangs.
As far as venue, i should simply begin holding a giant Halloween party every year....complete with a giant bowl of punch, a creepy noises soundtrack i will pick up at target, a bowl of eyeballs i tell people are peeled grapes, some cow brain i tell people is cow brain, and some convicts dressed as such. All of these will make my party extremely authentic, frightening, and fun. Especially the convict part, especially when we play a game of "my knives are missing from the kitchen and old Howard over there was in the tank for stabbing people and has an odd look in his eye"
I am happy to have helped everyone solve Halloween. Start thinking about it today, February the 10th, and I guarantee some success for October 31 this year. And by success I mean not watching Step by Step for your Halloween excitement this year.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
But one of the films which I feel needs to be more recognized- both for the way it defined a generation and changed cultural opinions and the general milieu of the world around it- is none other than 1995's Operation Dumbo Drop.
Ray Liotta and Danny's Glover's courageous portrayals of two lifelong military men enlisted with moving a dastardly elephant (socialism) somewhere or something has changed the life path of all those who have come across the film. Without recognition from the Screen Actor's Guild or Academy Awards, the film has still managed to snare the headlines both for political activism and daring glances into Vietnam War era military furtiveness.
Barack Obama is one man whose entire political career was shaped by the movie. "Moving an elephant or whatever it is the elephant symbolized was on the level of inspiration of Rocky or E.T. Yet these movies are constantly referred to as true bastions of neo-politicalism. I would have to say in 1995 when I saw O D D, as we followers call it, I realized that two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I would have to move an 'elephant' right down through the middle of the woods. Political satire has never been more brilliant, or moving."
This writer's personal opinion is that one "dropping a dumbo" on someone, and the multicultural references of having one caucasian and one African-American lead cannot be understated. The Kim Jong-Il's, Fidel Castro's and Stephen Harper's of the world could well stand to be taught the lesson in the film. That or have a dumbo dropped all upside their heads.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Building things - the last furniture I built was an Ikea dresser. I ended the process wondering why they had provided several extra wood piece and some extra screws. Needless to say, this dresser has not stood the test of time too well. Or even stood at all too well at any point in time.
Eating eggplant - Shit's gross man. I can't even fake it being edible even with being a 27 year old grown ass man.
Fitting into small quarters- I used to be able to fit into some cabinets in the house where my Mom grew up. I tried this a couple years ago and could barely fit my upper half in. Now mind you when I say "used to be able to" I was maybe 3 at a time, and have grown at least a foot and ten pounds since then. At least I have avoided the curse of my Father who hits his head on shit all the time.
Wearing short pants without being made fun of- I have to wear a 36 inseam, which means special ordering pants. Guess who is not patient enough for this sometimes and buys normal pants that are too short? Me. Luckily I am surrounded by the kindest friends who will mock me at will for wearing pants that are even a smidgen short.
Keeping clean shaven
Being on time (put this one in the middle so they are still stuck on your more intriguing flaws)
Battle rapping (i go to the f word early and often) Whenever 8 Mile came out we used to get drunk and try battle rapping. Unfortunately a line consisting of purely f bomb's does not merely rhyme with a line that follows consisting purely of f bomb's- it's identical. I retired from battle rapping soon after)
Throwing away socks once one has a hole in it
Not trying hard enough to join the US Curling Team- As I watched the winter olympics this past year and watched the U.S. Suck at Curling, I thought how awesome I would be at it. Then some young dude shows up and they start talking about how he is the bad boy of curling. That dude looks like a total nerd next to what I would bring- hot ladies and a flask where I get drunk at every match (contest? competition? game? round?) and yell at the crowd. Boom. But it's a weakness of mine since I don't try too hard to join it.
These are my weaknesses. Feel free to use them as you wish at your next job interview.
Monday, November 29, 2010
I think people should put more of a gift of a magi spin on stolen goods. Or go the polar opposite and act like liam neeson in taken no matter how minute the iterm.
A few months ago, a most egregious act occurred at my apartment unit, one entirely shocking given the fact that the last remaining Cabrini Green tower looms in the distance. Or wait, no, it was not shocking in the least, but it still happened.
My girlfriend had her bike stolen off of our balcony.
This, my reader (note the singular...I am trying to make you feel unique, even though you are about as ubiquitous as a Starbucks to me. Trust me, I write this to make myself giggle, not you), is no small feat, given the fact that our balcony bottom ledge is probably ten feet off the ground. So for one to pull themself up, and toss down a bike without getting caught is semi awesome. (Also semi frightening when I think about these bike thieves sitting around my home, eating my peanut butter) I assume it might have been a team of acrobats.
Regardless I have decided something. There in the future should only be two ways to handle such a crime, neither of which involves contacting the authorities.
1. If an item, no matter what the value, has been stolen from you, put a Gift of the Magi spin on it. For those not familiar with the tale, go look up the Wikipedia entry. I am not your English teacher, and whomever they were obviously did a shit job teaching you.
Now that you have looked it up, you understand what I am talking about. If you still have not looked it up, it is probably because you don't know how to read, and have merely printed out this blog entry and are using it like a word search (which, I must admit would be a fun illiteracy related activity. No word can be wrong, because you don't know any).
Anyways, if an item has been stolen from you, just pretend someone did it to get someone else some sentimentally awesome ass gift, not merely to peddle your bike around and sell drugs.
Option 2 is to react like Liam Neeson in the film "Taken". Like this guy on the following link:
So, two options. Like them and use them. Or else I'm going to start stealing your shit.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Second things, well, second. As is wont for things that go second, to be second. The other day I was reading over the shoulder of a man on the train. The title of the chapter of whatever shit book he was reading was "What is your biggest fear? Speaking, rejection, or failure?" How about something legit, buddy. Like goddamn poisonous snakes. Or sharks off seal island in South Africa. Flesh eating bacteria. The list goes on and on. That is why people need to not be worried about crap like public speaking. No one cares what you are saying. Just don't be a person from Boston talking about how much you love the show Hardcore Pawn. Or pee yourself.
Finally I have long been wishing to express rules of man law because I feel it is of such great importance to our society, the world, and our future. So, the first rule of man law presented to the world:
Those tiny backpacks that have merely strings that go over your shoulder, and you have to hold on, which additionally look as if they could hold only your favorite bracelets ARE NOT FOR MEN. These are for 7 year old girls. Some men have countered with, "They are perfect for carrying shoes." NO. A normal backpack can do that too. Or carry them in your hand, like a real man. Goddamnit, this makes me so irate. So please, mock any man you see wearing these, both those you know, and strangers on the street. A nice cackle and saying something like "What's the matter, no backpacks for men? Had to borrow your 7 year old sisters backpack?" Then these could be eradicated once and for all, because I think even 7 year old girls have moved on from these sissy bags.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
First and foremost, it is Aug 1st, so Happy Shark Week...in the words of the ever poetic Tracy Jordan, "Live every week like it's shark week." A truer statement has never been spoken. I have, however, thought truer statements. I just don't want to upstage this comment.
Now to get down to business, discussing the Top 10 Actors of all time.
#10 Michael Oliver
At this point many of you are thinking, "Michael Oliver? Who the fuck is that? How can the #10 actor of all time be someone whose name I do not even know?"
You probably know him better by his birth name...Michael Oliverius. Still not ringing a bell, morons? Here's a photo:
This thespian who is known namely for his brilliant portrayal of "Junior" in 2 Problem Child movies (the series also spawned a third, made for TV movie which Oliver did not appear in for fear of diluting the character. And I just made that up) is without a doubt one of the Top 10 Actors of our time. Do they traditionally make a series of 3 films without a successful star at the helm for at least the first two? I'll give you some examples, with the actor's all time rating in parentheses:
Indiana Jones series featuring Harrison Ford (329)
The Matrix Series starring Keanu Reeves (12...sorry Keanu, not quite top 10 material)
The Land Before Time series starring Littlefoot (22)
Need any more proof? I thought not.
Oliver, classically trained in method acting as well as with Strasberg's techniques, owned the screen even when appearing along slightly more notorious actors like John Ritter (34), Michael Richards (19) and Jack Warden (456). Marlon Brando oftentimes would speak of Oliver's performances wistfully before he died, lamenting, "I wished I could have had half his (Oliver's) presence on the screen." Second truest statement ever spoken.
Oliver, like many others who know when to get out while at the top of their game, only appeared in a couple bit roles after the Problem Child films, and I for one think this would have to be due to the fact that playing these roles with such passion and vigor would be just too draining to continue at such a level. However, I could be writing this post about Top 5 all time Actor Michael Oliver had we at the very least gotten to see him reprise his role in Problem Child 3.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Confidence has a smell, and no, it’s not an actual aroma as this is not some body wash for men advertisement, but rather it has a certain palpability to it that lingers on people.
I personally have a confidence stench.
I make phenomenal, glaring eye contact when the situation calls for it.
I enter rooms with a half smile half smirk like I know something everyone else doesn’t.
Is this true? Maybe, maybe not but if you say anything with enough conviction and confidence it sounds true. And say it often enough and you will believe it too. Hell, I have told enough stories filled with partial truths and entertaining self aggrandizing fibs that my friends can retell them the same way. You know why? My confidence stench.
The way I look at achieving things and getting different things is different from one of those lame-o visualization exercises where you see yourself achieving “FILL IN PARTICULAR GOAL”. It’s more of, “There are billions of people in the world. Vast percentages are inept morons. I am not an inept moron, ergo; I can do what I want.”
If I want to randomly pack up my car and move directly across the country to a city I have never even visited, where I don’t know hardly anyone, have no job lined up, and no place to live, I will do it. And I will do it knowing that I will get an awesome job, get a place to live, and make as many friends as I want. Confidence stench.
And I know that if I were to move back to Chicago and try and make a career switch, even it was in some stupid industry like car rental, that I would be the youngest manager in the downtown market within ten months. Confidence stench.
Were I to randomly wake up one day, and decide in the midst of a job recession that I wanted to quit my job, with nothing on the horizon and bills to pay, that I would have no problem finding a new job where I got paid more and worked less. Confidence stench.
When meeting people, interviewing for jobs, or bartering at your favorite flea market, it is of the utmost importance, you have to let your stench be made present. Without it, that’s the sort of shit that gets people mugged and attacked by Rottweiler’s and paying exorbitant prices for a second hand wooden tennis racket.
130% of job interviews are decided on three factors, and I know this because I have hired now 8 people in my brief professional tenure:
1) A firm enough handshake by a person making direct eye contact with sound posture.
2) A person who is ready and willing to talk about the subject about which they have the best knowledge and confidence, themselves.
3) A person who projects the attitude, “You’d be fucked up in the mind to not pick me.”
I have always gone forth from any interview, personal interaction, or flea market purchase thinking about what a great impression/second hand wooden tennis racket purchase I have made. And whatever decision others make, I find it to be like the opposite of the classic breakup mantra, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Instead it’s a whole lot of, “It’s not me, it’s you, you fucking idiots. But oh well, it’s not on me. I’m gonna be alright, it’s you I’m worried about, what with your awful decision making skills and ugly sweaters.” There are times, albeit rare, when you must defer to others and mask your stench. I have not discovered such a situation, but I am sure they exist.
The confidence stench is unique to the individual. Everyone has a particular way of showing how they are the best. The key thing is you are always prepared for everyone else to smell your stench and recognize it.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
And this brings me to discuss one of the true treasures we have in the US and A- the carnival worker. Oh you know who they are. You love them. Maybe some of you have been drunk and literally loved them (although on my jack and coke scale you would be past death level to have to do something this extreme. Like a 18. 18 Jack and cokes might make this excusable. On second thought, no. If you have ever hooked up with a carnie, you are doing wrong with your life). And you know who these people are. Carnies are easily known as carnies based on their general carnieness. They have a cigarette in their mouth or on the ready in their hands at all time, they stare listlessly off into the distance constantly which is also their style when operating that rickety old scary ride (about which your Dad always says, "Must be totally safe. Do you really think they would let all these kids on it if it weren't safe?" Yes Dad, I do think they might not be safe. These machines weren;t built by NASA employees in their down time) or taking your money so you can play their rigged carnival game. , they have some sort of tattoo related to America a la the bald eagle drinking whiskey with guns it its talons. These people are America.
Yet one thing that I have always been perplexed about is just how one ends up becoming one of these carnival workers. It's almost like the old joke about naming your kid Jeeves so he would become a goddamn butler, which is basically like telling your child you hate them (Ace, Buck, Icarus...those names equal pure love). Carnies might start off from the same path, receiving names like Riaan, Fred, Arrork, Botswana, Namibia, Rwanda (alright so I just started naming African countries. It was easier that way for all of us. Trust me.) But somehow I don't get the feeling that the path to carniedom follows this route:
1)Normal middle class upbringing, complete with high school, college, and taking MBA classes at night.
2) Become a carnie.
That would be fucking ridiculous.
I have a feeling like it's more like this
1) Found in a dumpster by nuns during infancy
2) Given an odd name since nuns, realistically have little or no contact with the actual world, nor do they know they are making you destined to become a carny.
3) Get your first tattoo at three. Also develop a lifelong dependance on oxycontin, whiskey, cigarettes and strippers, but slightly later, like at 10, on a field trip to a meat packing plant where you seperated from the group and went to a strip club.
4) Burn the orphanage down.
5) Work for a carnival. Your skillset is perfect and boy did you ever trick the manager of the carnival to agree to pay you in all the corndogs you could eat. That fuckin moron.
I mean, think about it, there are a number of blue collar jobs which can still place people in a whole different strata than the carnival worker. But at the same time, is the carnival worker not as beautiful and majestic as a soaring bald eagle in terms of its representation of America?
Carnies with good social skills get promoted to being a roadie.
Monday, June 28, 2010
So, before I get into the meat of this, I have some rules:
1. If you read this, give a comment.
2. In the aforementioned comment, defend which is better, the ninja, or the ninja assassin.
3. Send me a self addressed, stamped envelope with $7 in it. No Ponzi scheme or anything, I would just like to see how much cash I can accumulate.
4. Offer your counterarguments or explanations to the things I have said. Your counterarguments, sadly, will be wrong.
5. I will be writing at minimum on this forum, weekly, unless I join a gladiator troupe and am mauled by lions. If nothing from me, assume the mauling occurred.
Thank you for observing these rules, and Happy Reverse Ramadan- where you eat all day while the sun is up (sponsored by Old Country Buffet).
First, a part of a conversation that was heard Easter weekend by myself and my sisters, as completed by me (the first two lines are the truthy ones)
Guy1: So he calls 911...
Guy 2: The guy who shot him???
Guy 1: Fuck you.
Guy 2: Let's wrassle.
It really is amazing some of the things that you can hear people saying just standing somewhere, or riding on public transportation, or dressed as a character from your favorite anime game. People either legitimately think that others cannot hear them, or really have some of the most outlandish stories and choose to tell them within earshot of others.
When driving home to Louisville recently, I heard a radio station near Indianapolis implore me to stay tuned for the DJ PAUL BUNYAN M-M-M-M-MEGA MIX. I don't really understand why the announcer for DJ PAUL BUNYAN had such a horrible stutter trying to get out the word mega, or why the radio station insists on letting the man with the stutter announce their world famous DJ's with their wacky literary names. But what I r-r-r-r-r-really don't understand is the DJ name chosen by this man. Paul goddamn Bunyan? Now I know DJ names or the choice of career as a DJ is in and of itself an odd career path, but choosing Paul Bunyan as your DJ name would have to be rather circuitous. DJ's are known for yelling things out during their mixes, I know this from totally on the up and up downloading rap songs in college, where inevitably you would have to put up with a DJ yelling things throughout the song simply because you legally procured the song and paid all appropriate licensing rights. These DJ's would yell things like, "EXCLUSIVE!" "NEW SHIT!" "HEAVY HITTER" "THIS IS FOR MY STREET SWEEPERS" (who has their own street sweepers?) "FELL OFF" All of these, I am quite sure are rap terms I probably do not understand, nor should I, nor do I want to. Unfortunately, I was no longer in the area by the time I could have potentially h-h-h-h-heard DJ Paul Bunyan's awesome spinning, but I can only imagine the things this man would have loved to yell "SHOUT OUT TO BABE THE BLUE OX", "AXES", "FLAP JACK HOCKEY RINK REMIX", "FLANNEL THIS BITCH". I would only think that if the man moved on to DJ in a larger city like Chicago, he would change his name to a more familiar literary character like DJ AMELIA BEDILIA and her exclusive WACKY REMIXES.
And finally a commentary on society. Today as I took my normal train ride home from work, I arrived at my destination. Soon after I would see one of the most puzzling things I have ever seen: The narrow one person wide escalator next to the spacious staircase was not working. Yet, it was loaded with people. PEOPLE OF THE WORLD, WHEN AN ESCALATOR IS BROKEN, IT IS A FLIGHT OF STAIRS. Morons. I personally opted for the staircase. And gave the finger to all the idiots on the escalator. Also, I am afraid of escalators, so I have that going for me.
So party people, click on the ads surrounding this blog, preferably a few million times, follow my rules, and I will see you next week. I promise or something. Also, if anyone wants to be my agent and find me a patron who will pay me for my humorous writing, I will give you a generous 15% cut. I'm serious about that. Sell my words. I can always come up with more. Really, I can make up words with the best of them. I think I have nearly matched Shakespeare thus far.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Okay just so I understand it, in your wildest fantasy, you are in hell co running a bed and breakfast with the devil?
1) Air a funny comedy show for years called Scrubs. Star a young actor in it named Zach Braff. His inner dialogue really makes the show go round.
2) In 2010, still air a show called Scrubs. however remove Zach Braff (I am not sure if he was just not in this episode, or not on the show completely). Either way, it sucked. I felt like a confused baby, fed solids for the first time. This was the equivalent of not getting mashed carrots or rutabaga or whatever fucked up shit people feed babies. (seriously, to borrow from the idea of Chris Rock, it's not like babies said they couldn't taste, they said they didn't have teeth. and the poor beings actually can't say anything.)
3) I therefore assume Zach Braff is dead, since what else is he supposed to do with his life? It led to this google search and subsequent results:
4) He evidently had some suicide rumors, which he denied on his facebook page, by saying, "Hi. I'm very much alive. Total internet rumor. Amazing how fast one douche can spread a lie. Be careful out there on the internets friends. Please spread the word... Video of me holding todays paper to follow... Love, zb."
5) Zach braff is a huge puppy. Go back to being on Scrubs, moron. Or else, what is your career arc? Scrubs then Scrubs, then a movie where you wore a garbage bag, then some more Scrubs, then denying suicide rumors. Nice. Puppy.
6) Since that is boring, here are the results I got by google image searching "wombats getting busy"
6) Unfortunately there was one picture brought up by this search of Stalin and Lenin playing guitars. Ahhhh...the beauty of the internet.
7) The internet also provided me with this fun this week. Hotmail, with whom I have had an email address since 1998, just prompted me to change my password for the first time ever. In terms of ridiculousness, this is up there with an old person being told they have to wear an adult diaper for the first time. I did not feel as though my account was in danger previously, but thankfully they told me it was. Someone might break into my email and read all the top secret things I have. Like emailing people ot inform them I am going to google wombats getting busy. That's national security right there. Thanks, Hotmail, which when I tell people they are my email provider I might as well tell them that my dial up connects within five minutes, it's that hip.
8)Enough Metamucil as well as candy bar ads. Give up. Eliminate your marketing budget and watch your bottom line soar. I have never purchased Metamucil nor have I been swayed by an ad for a candy bar, but I have this theory that ads are pretty expensive.
BYAH. Suck it.
Monday, January 04, 2010
1 Hollywood, world of sports, others of the world, stop using retreads.
Hollywood- As I have a choice between watching Boise State and TCU play in some meaningless bowl game this evening (I mean seriously, how will we know if either of these teams is any good? Could they not play actual teams from major conferences? And why does one team have bright purple pants and call themselves the Horned Frogs? Surely an homage to TCU great Kurt Thomas who looked sort of like a horned frog) or mindless drivel on in the background, I went with CBS "comedy" night for some mindless drivel. Last I checked, CBS, comedy night meant shows should make me laugh at least a 30% to the canned laughter. They are hitting on 2%. A commercial with Taye Diggs and Miss Piggy was just funnier. But I digress. There have to be tons of actors out there. Talented actors. Then why is Charlie Sheen on TV? And then on this dork show the one guy from Roseanne is on it, as well as the girl from the show John Ritter was on when he died....she gets a pass, because....duh. Then CBS has also aired a commercial for a show with Julianna Marguiles of ER fame....movie career didn't work out so well? Just give up. Go get a real job. I want you to make me a $5 footlong next time I go to Subway. You probably have some money so it can be your own proud Subway franchise. I do opt for jalepenos on most sandwiches. (And Charlie Sheen, I understand you need as much money as you can to cover legal expenses. Someday I will be able to hire you to try and catch cheetos in your mouth....someday)
World of Sports- There are 30 NBA teams, 30 MLB teams, and 32 NFL teams. Yet it seems to me there is a pool of 100 possible coaches/managers for these teams. Give me a try, one of you sports. Probably not the NFL since I would bring the "Madden" coordinators into effect ( just have people playing Madden on the sidelines and putting the best plays into the game...it's too easy) and win too many Super Bowls. All I know is this, I watch many more baseball games than most managers, and NBA players just have to have their egos taken care of. I would let them play me 1 on 1 everyday. It would also provide laughter for everyone and I would be nothing short of a media darling.
Rest of the world- Fortune 500 companies, stop hiring CEO's who failed as CEO's somewhere else. Men and women who have on again off again relationships where your friends don't know when they can insult your significant other, knock it off. The insults have to come free and easy. City of Chicago, stop putting a bag of gravel in potholes that can swallow entire vehicles. ESPN let up on the Sportscenters every once in a while. S&P 500, stop acting like you are really that important. Judd Apatow....you are excused, please continue making the same film over and over.
That is my main resolution for 2010 to the world. Because whenever someone said "There is nothing new under the sun," I don't think it was any sort of requirement. More rock, less talk 2010. Especially since we don't even have flying suits yet.
Friday, December 18, 2009
1. All women greater than 70 love me, except for my own grandmother, who thinks I am an awful human. They find me charming and handsome. I probably look like a move star from the first "talkies" (non silent films) or some nonsense like that. But I don't talk like a Cary Grant fruit cake. Plaster my photo on the packaging, and I do a few meet and greets at nursing homes and other places with old people like antique stores or where the old Woolworths used to be (you know, since they get confused and want to go to a drug store chain that has been out of business for 15 years)
2. My product will be a better use for discretionary and non discretionary income than any other product existing. Ever. It will be a mix of everything that old people love and young people hate to have to eat. I'm thinking some sort of trail mix with off brand cheetos, bits of vintage aged fruit cake (which I will call Cary Grant) and those weird yellow raisins that are never sold alone.
3. Location location packaging. Got ya! You thought I was going to say location a third time. But realistically, what the fuck would location have to do with what I am talking about? No packaging for the oldies...not too many bright colors, my photo (looking all dapper, in black and white) and something about Olde Tyme. And classic. And maybe something about just like when you were a little girl and FDR was president? Yes. Perfect.
And now for my foray into the sandwiches for truckers:
1) I am good at making sandwiches. All I have to do is find someone who is good at saran wrap. I hate saran wrap. It's fuckin dumb as shit. Maybe my sandwiches can be wrapped in foil. Last I checked, truckers aren't too into aesthetics. What with their mullets and ugly wives.
Facebook people. Stop doing status updates that are STATUS updates. I don't need to know you bought something new and expensive. I don't give a shit. That'd be like me scanning my bank statement and highlighting all the baller ass purchases I made that past month. Oh, boom $86 worth of groceries. BALLER. Subway $12.39. Looks like someone got 2 $5 footlongs. BALLER.
And yes, I've been drinking. But you can bet I'll drink more. And write more. BALLER>