I like when dudes leave the sports section in the stall. It is a gem of selflessness, one of the last bastians of Platonic brotherhood. I mean, not bringing the sports page back to the lobby desk is not going to do you any good. But you leave it anyway because you know that for the rest of the day dudes are going to be stoked about getting to check where the A’s are in the AL West while they take a shit.
The inverse corrallery is when someone leaves any section other than the sports section, like the front page for instance. There’s nothing worse then seeing the newspaper, getting all excited, and then realizing that you’ll have to read about some boring, non-sports-related topic. Not that I don’t like keeping up on the boring news. It’s just that the bathroom is for reading about sports. That’s all there is to it. There’s something antithetical about browsing through an article about supply and demand markets in Rhodescia while sitting on a toilet in a room that smells like poop and farts.
-Shark
I bet the reason why they don’t show any Pepe Le Pew cartoons on television anymore is because dude is basically a rapist. At best, a molester.
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Many thanks to VH1, who could not wait until 2011 to release a version of “I Love the (decade)” for the 00’s. They could just not wait to have a slew of unfunny comedians and musicians/actors that think they are comedians make bad jokes useing their best sarcasm voices and put it out in 2008, 2 years before the actual end of the decade. Hey guys, remember that thing in pop culture from 8 months ago in 2007 that everyone is actually still using and is still relevant and does not give you any moment whatsoever of “hey, I remember using/wearing that! Oh man that was lame!”? How can the “celebrity” commenters be sarcastic about something that they still have? I don’t know either. I’m pretty sure that it takes longer than 8 months for something to become tragically cool or hip. It will be funny in ten years when they are doing “I Love 2008″ and they make fun of the fact they put out an “I Love the (decade)” before the end of the decade. I mean, WHO DOES THAT ANYWAY (snark, snark)?!?!?!!?!!?
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The original three Star Wars movies are usually on one of many cable channels on a repeat basis, especially on weekends. Usually, I will stop flipping long enough to watch one for 15 minutes or so. Lately, I have noticed something I think is rather peculiar about the original Star Wars movies, namely the complete benevolence of the Empire in their role as “captors” (Jabba the Hut taking them out to be eaten by the sand monster thing does not count, as Jabba is not part of the Empire. He’s his own Jabba). The various heroes get captured a thousand times in the three movies, correct? But for how ruthlessly evil we are supposed to think the planet-destroying Empire is, every time they capture members of the rebel alliance its almost like they are simply arresting them for disturbing the peace or something. They’re rebels! They are not even “Prisoners of War”. Say for example, the Empire had to abide by the Geneva convention or its long time ago in a galaxy far, far away equivalent. Luke, Han and the gang would not fall under its protection because they are not a nation and the rebellion is not a conventional war. Historically, rebels are almost always treated worse than regular soldiers (save our own country’s civil war) because rather than being foreigners fighting for their government rebels are home-grown and are committing treason. The rebel alliance is an insurrection. Which begs the question of why there is no beatings, no leg irons, not even verbal beratement. Every time one of them is captured they are just paraded around hearing vague threats about the dark side. The storm troopers “guarding them” don’t even rob them of personal possessions. They just walk next to them. They get handcuffed in the front! Not even the-classic-any-movie-you’ve-ever-seen-when-a-good-guy-is-captured-by-bad- guys-and-the-bad-guys-want-to-move-the-good-guy-they-ALWAYS-give-him- an-obligatory-rifle-butt-to-the-back-and-a-shout-of-MOVE-ALONG! Maybe when Lucas re-re-re-releases the film he can CGI in some shit so where Luke, Han etc. are treated like actual “rebels” and summarily shot. Or at least kicked in the groin.
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Its fun to build furniture wearing nothing but boxer shorts and an open bathrobe, drinking red wine out of a tumbler. Stay classy.
“When I was touring for the Liz Phair CD, my tour manager was Brett Radin, who’s this awesome guy. He makes touring really really fun, and for me to say that is a big deal. After working together for about a year, he told me that he was leaving. And I was like, wha? He said he was going to go be Dave Matthews’ personal assistant. And in that second, I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine, and I saw exactly what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be, and slowly got to go to shows and meet Dave and talk to him about maybe signing me. It ended up being a really wonderful thing. The only thing I could bear to lose Brett over was going on to something so awesome and great like the Dave Matthews Band.”
The rumors are true. I no longer reside at the Jo-tel. So, if you’re doing the math and scratching your head: yes, Hip E. and Johnny D are the only ones on this blog who actually live at the Jo-tel in San Francisco, which: ValleJO St. + Hotel = Jo-tel (pronounced “hotel” not “joe-tel”). Duh. So now here’s the rundown:
Thrill: No-Tel (Petaluma = “north”, Phoenix = local Petaluma bar where Gallager recently performed) PETE: Jo-tel South (El Lay = Teh Ghey) Turd: Oregon Shark: Gough-tel (Gough St, which: imagine it pronounced like the artist, not like it’s actually pronounced in SF (i.e. rhyming with quaff. not that way))
Why did I move out of the Jo-tel? Well, the cool reason that I would cite for appearances is: I’d been living there for over five years and needed a change of scenery. It’s a great apartment, totally fun, I’m going to miss it, etc. But five years is a long time. And Polkers uses this weird pancake-batter-esque dressing for their salads. Perhaps the more accurate reason is: my new wife made me. The way I describe it is that she was just cleaning with more celerity than the rest of the apartment, and me too. I think us dudes usually clean when the shit just piles up too high to tolerate and then we spend an afternoon and clean to high hell. Chicks in general, and Patsy in particular, like to maintain residences at the consistent state of cleanliness. So while the Jo-tel roommates were probably more than happy to clean their pace, they couldn’t keep up with Patsy, who ended up basically keeping the entire apartment clean single-handedly. And she deserves to not have to do that.
So now we are living with The Deepa at the Gough-tel and things are going well so far. We don’t have internet yet, so I’m falling behind on whatever it is I do on the internet for three hours each night. We have a nice, big living room, downstairs parking, and a TV and a MOTHERFUCKING DISHWASHER!!!!! Basically the only two bad things are (1) no free washer and dryer, and (2) Deepa put a Harry Potter book on the living room book shelf in between Thus Spoke Zarathustra and Swann’s Way, which: immediately moved.
“Drink the Cool-Aid” has gotten too prevalent. It should be a rare color comment, not a marquee move. I blame it’s popularity on the fact that most people don’t know its original context or its current meaning, so that if someone throws its into a conversation people will usually say, “Right!”, especially when it is being used to talk shit about someone who “needs to shut up and drink the cool-aid” because it sounds like something you’d want someone who is not being cool to do. Let’s face it, it’s only a matter of time before some college student in a Massachusetts liberal arts college says “drink the cool aid” and thinks it means “try to be cool”. And that’s going to really suck when that happens.
-Shark
Parents are funny. I think we can all remember parents embarrassing us when we were younger by simply talking to us. Or when they called all drugs “dope” or used phrases like “do you guys smoke the bowl?”. Now, as we get older, it is kind of neat, or sort of novel, to invite parental units over for a party or to watch a game and hang out with your friends. Mostly because the consumption of alcohol can be shared. Also, rather than being embarrassing, most of the things they say are now funny because they are stories they could not tell you when you were younger, or they are stories or lines that are really bad where it ends up with you and your friends laughing AT them, rather than with them. However, there are those moments where you are afraid the parent will get too comfortable in this unfamiliar setting, be overtaken by some sort of social anxiety, and make an inappropriate bewb remark or the like. Then it is just awkward and everyone thinks your dad is “creepy old man reeking of scotch” guy.
Anyway, this situation occurred a little while ago, when my dad and stepmom joined some friends and I to watch an NBA Finals game. After some Kobe-hating rape jokes, a few beers and glasses of wine, my father proceeded to tell this story:
Yeah, I was working in the emergency room one night and this lady came in complaining of stomach pains. We examined her and could not find anything wrong. We took an X-ray of her torso/stomach/pelvic area and all we could see was a hunk of metal. We asked her why there would be metal inside of her. So she “goes fishing” into her hoo-ha and pulls out a napkin, which happens to be filled with jewelry. And I’m not talking just rings and earrings, but bracelets and necklaces. Apparently, she had gone to a party the night before and stolen all this jewelry and hid it by hiding it up THERE. So I threw the jewelry into a kidney basin, turned to the staff and said “Now that gives new meaning to the term jewelry box.”
Now, that’s a pretty great story. But of course, not ever having heard this story and considering its context and the fact it involved a vaginer I had my hands covering my eyes the whole time, waiting for it to get awkward and planning my “Hey dad. Why don’t you sit the next couple of plays out?” speech.
The point is, inviting parents to social gatherings is good. They
a) Will often times bring booze.
b) They will tell good stories. (see above)
c) You score points. (for x-mas and b-day gifts, possibly power tools)
If I can get off of my ass and initiate the graduate school application process, I’m going to, well, go to graduate school. I’ve been thinking about what I should study while there. This morning was a particular morning of thinking as I was up early, had a large coffee seeping into my blood stream and I had a half hour walk to work. My thought process was like this: Keep reading →
A couple days ago I had an epiphany regarding VHS tapes. It occurred at the Concord Rasputin when I purchased the following five VHS tapes for $2 each:
- The 39 Steps (dir. Hitchcock; 1935)
- The Empire Strikes Back (non-”special” edition, 1981)
- The General (dir. Keaton; 1933)
- Arachnophobia (dir. Marshal; 1990)
- The Adventures of Robin Hood (st. Erron Flynn; 1938)
It made me wonder why I’ve been so obsessed with getting movies on DVD? I mean, for your favorites, sure, but for all those more peripheral movies that you would never have purchased on DVD, VHS is a great option. Especially with stuff like The 39 Steps– which is awesome, but not 40 dollars awesome … CRITERION!
Because I am now married to Patsy, it was obvious that the first of the above movies that I was going to watch was Arachnophobia– which I was fine with because for some reason I have this childhood memory of Arachnophobia being totally awesome. My best guess is that this was the result of the well-known phenomena at Blockbuster in the early nineties whereby if Blockbuster didn’t purchase enough of a certain new release it became very difficult to find in stock on Friday or Saturday night– and as soon as you arrived at the store you and your brother would run quickly in the alphabetical direction of the movie only to, of course, find it all out– the movie’s box lacking the coveted laminated Blockbuster box sitting as a golden buffer between it and the white, slightly slanted shelf. Then you’d look at the stack of recently returned movies. Always to no available. Then you would follow the re-stock guy around the store, craning your neck to view all the titles in his sloppily arrange stocking cart. Then, when that failed, you would inevitably– and heartbreakingly– notice that a pudgy suburban dad with Sperry’s, no socks, and a little league dad of the year t-shirt had the movie you wanted along with several others tucked under his arm while he searched for more– his kids running up to him periodically with a new movie that he would dutifully tuck under his arm. What could he possibly want MORE movies for! He didn’t even know what he had, did he!?
