pschychosomatically I'll singto god and all his pretty girls

by mg at 10:34 PM on April 30, 2002

I’m no Casanova that is for sure.

Last night, I was talking to this girl, who is not the Mystery Date, but someone else. We talked for a bit, and then made plans to go out tonight. I may have found it hard to believe about two months ago, but I guess there is something remotely appealing about me. I’ve actually heard the word “endearing” twice in the past week, which, while not quite as powerful an adjective as “sexy”, is certainly better than “revolting.”

Later in the evening, the Mystery Date called me (I so need to come up with a better name for her). Talking with her was sort of distracting because I kept imaging what shapes her mouth was making. Did I mention she also has a little scar on her chin, just under her lower lip? The mouth, the scar, it all goes together, it just works so nicely. I haven’t asked her how she got the scar, and maybe I won’t. I kind of like the mystery.

Well, we talked for a while. Made tentative plans for later in the week (she made point to mention we could head back to her apartment afterward, what does that mean?). As we were saying good night I very nearly called her by the other girl’s name.

Now, this would hardly be a disaster at this stage of our “whatever” (don’t wanna say relationship just yet). I’m a good liar, and could have made up a story. In fact, I probably could have told the truth and she’d have laughed it off.

It wasn’t a serious disaster at all, especially since I caught myself. But what is sort of the disaster is how inept I am at dating. I’m a virile young man; I should have learned to juggle women years ago. I should have learned the best way to make the move for that first kiss. I should have learned the proper time to wait after a date before calling up (and not from Swingers that movie is so not money, baby).

There are so many things I should have learned about being a man, and about being a man in the dating world. But I never did. It is a wonder that I managed to hook up with anyone in college. It took someone pinning me down in the grassy field behind Helser Hall and kissing me before I realized she had any interest in me at all. I needed someone knocking on my door every night at three in the morning to understand if I’d just let her in, she’d have done nasty things to me. It wasn’t until after someone stripped down to her bra and panties for me in the Laundromat next to Thumbs, that I got the message to make my move.

Saying I am dense is a disrespect to lead, because even a block of lead would have been able to figure these things out before I did.

But I’m learning.

Two dates in three nights has to count for something. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything embarrassing or say anything that could remotely be construed as sociopathic. In fact, I was calm, interesting, funny, and maybe a little bit charming. Now, I’m no Fonzie, and probably never will be, but I’m learning; ten years late, but I’m learning.

link of the day

by mg at 10:32 PM on April 30, 2002

a totally l33t guide to Romeo and Juliet (link via my gay friend tom)

then there's this welsh rarebit wearing some brown underpants

by mg at 03:26 PM on April 30, 2002

I've been contemplating the future of this site. A week or so ago, I was ready to scrap it completly, but I've put too much time into, and most of the time enjoy what I'm doing.

Still, in the last month only about 6 of the 30 people registered to post on the site have actually written anything. And while we still continue to get an average of 1,400 unique visits a day, only about 10-15 people comment on a regular basis.

It is really frustrating, and I'm not sure what to do about it.

Whatever I come up with, I do know one thing, a community site needs an active community, so I guess this is an official Casting Call. If you've always had dreams of writing for Bad Samaritan (or nightmares about it), send me an email with your URL, or a writing sample, and we shall see what happens from there.

i went to a party last saturday night, i didn't get laid, i got in a fight

by mg at 09:51 PM on April 29, 2002

I suppose it only fair that I do my wrap up of Choire’s party two days later and only after all the other blogger literati who attended have already beat the thing to death. People say something about better late than never, not me, mind you, but I’ve heard other people say that. The plan was for me, Michele and Baz to meet up at Holiday, a dive bar on St Marks place, for pre-party drinks. But, Michele, the big wuss, didn’t come out with us. Something about getting smashed in the face with fastball. Whatever. So, because I didn’t want to be a third wheel with Miss B and her boy, I hastily called my friend (Evil)Tom and convinced him to leave his apartment. Good for him.

We met up, and blah blah blah. Miss B peeped her abusive ex-boyfriend in at the table next to ours, and I threatened to beat him up for her. I may be little, but I’m tough. Damnit. I’d of messed his shit up.

After a couple drinks (what the hell, why did we even go out for pre-party drinks in the first place?), we headed up to Chorie’s place. Choire is actually pronounced Cory. I may call him that to his face (that or “love-monkey”), but he’ll always be Choire in my head. Despite my little pic being only 40X40 pixels, he actually recognized me right away. Despite him wearing a shirt, I recognized him right away too. Though, he is much gayer in real life.

Choire’s apartment is cute. It could probably fit into my living room, but cute, the kind of place all my friend’s parents who lived in Manhattan had. Which was oddly disturbing; I kept expecting an adult to walk in and glare at all his underage child’s friends getting drunk in his flat. Anyway.

The part was very cool. Me and Tom and Baz quickly found comfort in the kitchen, maybe because no one else was in there, and maybe because that was where all the alcohol was. It offered us a good place to meet everyone as they wandered into the party. We met up with Green Lantern (aka Sparky aka The Big Ass), who, for some reason, took an immediate disliking to me. Now, unless you do something to one of my friends or I, I love everyone; I’m just that way. But I wanted to kick this drunk fucks ass so bad. Unfortunately, he had about a foot and 200 pounds on me. And, he really wasn’t that bad after all.

Other people streamed into the party, most noticeably Chris from Uffish. I haven’t met many NYC Bloggers (though I met a few later into the party), and if they were all as cool as her, they’d be pretty cool. Chris joined the kitchen crew, and was a welcome addition.

Eventually, we moved out to join the rest of the party. Amongst the throngs of Internet rock stars were Andy, of Andy’s Chest and Scott of Neurotic Jew. Like me, they are two unemployed dot.com types. I’d venture to say the majority of the party was unemployed. Or at least unhappy with their job, and not that everyone-is-unhappy-with-their-job and we-should-all-be-able-to-lie-around-naked-while-nubile-teenagers-put-grapes-in-our-mouthes kind of way.

Some other stuff happened and some other people were there (including Keithers, who is responsible for their being author bio pages on badsam, though he didn’t remember that, the bastard). I stumbled home sometime around 3, but only after I puked up my dinner riding between cars on the elevated 7 train. Sorry if I hit your car. That’ll wash off easy.

So, there you have it. If you aren’t satisfied with my wrap-up, you can check out the post-party commentary by Choire (with pictures), Baz, Uffish, and/or Andy.

link of the day

by mg at 09:48 PM on April 29, 2002

For the ladies (don't say I never gave you nothing) - Free Male Celebrities (link via Uffish)

too much light makes baby go blind

by space at 07:39 PM on April 29, 2002

Well, since we're talking about painful eye stuff lately, I'll share my most recent ocular adventure.

It was a few weeks ago. I'd started a new pair of disposable contacts (they're good for 1-2 weeks; I wear them 5-6) that morning and was driving to Target. The first day of a new pair is wonderful after enduring the crust of mineral deposits and bacterial corpses that develop on lenses being pushed to three times their expected lifetimes. Your eyes feel light, clean, ungluey. And you can see.

As I drove, my left eye started hurting. That's not unusual, I often get eyelashes on the edges of them, and there's just some general discomfort involved in the wearing of contacts. Gradually, however, the pain grew worse and worse, until I had to clutch my hand over my eye. But I couldn't bear to touch it. It was so bad I could barely keep my right, unaffected, eye open. Tears were pouring down the side of my face and I was chanting "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." You can do that instead of crying, you know, and no one will make fun of you.

Unfortunately, Target is one of those "out by the highway" places, and there really is no place to pull over. I figured that I might as well go that far: at Target I could buy some contact solution, after all, if I needed to wash the lens before reinserting it.

I made it to Target, somehow, and parked in the first available space, approximately seventeen miles away from the store's entrance. There, I plucked two-thirds of my contact from my eye. There must have been a tiny tear in it when I put it in, and the movement of my eye and eyelid exacerbated it until the lens tore completely in two. I don't know where the other third went. It could still be on my eye, for all I know.

I had made it all the way out to Target, what was I going to do now? Driving home half blind wasn't going to be fun, but it wasn't going to be more difficult an hour from now. So I went into the store and did my grocery shopping, trying to keep both eyes open while only seeing through one. Normally I keep one eye out for attractive young women when I'm at the grocery store, but since I only had one, I kept it on the food. Given the trouble I've had with beer goggles, it seemed best to avoid any possible entanglements while in this state. I mean sure, she may have appeared good-looking, but who knows? The right half of her face could have been completely unnattractive. There were only a few temptations.

I made the trip back home without incident, (I'm not counting that accident as an incident, it was an accident. Totally different thing) and popped in the next contact from the pack when I got there. As I put away the groceries, I told my roommate about my cyclopian adventures. She spotted a tofu package among the food and asked me, "Tofu! What the hell are you going to do with that?" She is a vegetarian; I am not.

"Tofu. Huh. Well, I couldn't see what I was doing. I was actually trying to buy sausage." That wasn't the truth, of course: I wanted tofu, I was starving, jonesing, ravenous for tofu, but it seemed to resettle the order of her universe, and in such cases lying is acceptable. We need our delusions, after all.

For example, when I go out with that girl I met at the grocery store, I just take out my left lens and insist that she drive. Whatever helps you get through the day, you know? That's all I'm saying. If you gotta be half-blind, go with it.

i said "i must be fine cause my heart's still beating"

by mg at 01:50 AM on April 29, 2002

When I was in college, I took a linguistics class. It was a class required of all English Majors. I was an English major. I took the class.

The class was taught by a Barb Schwarte, a impassioned educator, who really loved her material. She named her dog Noam Chomsky. She also had a very pronounced lisp. A linguistics professor with a lisp; certainly an irony worthy of Alanis Morissette.

Part of the class was phonology - looking at the various mouth shapes used when pronouncing certain sounds. Though I got an A in the class, I never quite got that part of the curriculum. I was never able to remember all the different mouth shapes and all of the sounds they produced. Still, what I remember of them has held true. Sometimes I watch people’s mouth and think to myself , "That was a voiceless labiodental fricative, it is responsible for the f sound in fine."

Tonight I went out with the Mystery Date. Our first date was almost a month ago, and our schedules haven’t really panned out for the second date, until tonight. Since the first date, we’ve talked on the phone a lot. A couple times a week, several hours at a pop. When we spoke last night, the Mystery Date said she’d almost forgotten what I looked like. I have to admit I shared her fuzzy memory.

For some reason, she really wanted to come out to Jackson Heights, eat some of our famous Indian food, walk around my neighborhood, and see my apartment. Who am I to turn down a girl wanting to come back to my apartment?

I picked her up at the train station around 7:30. She didn’t quite look I remembered, but better than I could have hoped. We walked around Jackson Heights for a bit, I pointed out some local landmarks. The ‘hood is cute, and especially so to someone new to New York and only experienced in the hustle and bustle of Manhattan.

We went to the Jackson Diner, the best Indian food in New York City, and draw to as many Indian families looking for traditional fare as Chic Urbanites, slumming in one of the outer boroughs. We sat in the restaurant until about 10:30. Great food, great conversation. I kept finding myself watching her mouth. She has the most beautiful mouth. It is probably the most expressive mouth I’ve ever seen. I’d find myself staring at it, thinking, she just said mail but her mouth didn’t take the voiced bilabial nasal shape.

I’m not sure what that says about her, or what it says about me, but if you can fall in love with someone over phonology, I could fall in love with that mouth.

Proletariat Ego

by eric at 03:00 PM on April 27, 2002

Two nights ago my boss called while I was at a, uh, meeting. I fretted and stewed over this voice mail from him all evening. Despite the fact that after a decade of being a successful magazine and Web site editor, I still have the ego of a 11th grader who knows he'll be turned down when asking a girl to the prom. I constantly tell myself things like "What if they realize I'm not that great and fire me?" (I blame some of this self-doubt on a former micro-manager boss because I seem to recall that before him I had an ego the size of the Hindenburg. Now I only have a gut that size.)

When I got my boss on the phone yesterday, it turned out he wanted to give me a whole different kind of (good/bad) news: more responsibility. It turns out they like my work so much, they're giving me another Web site to be in charge of. These new duties will not necessarily double my work load, but it's probably just shy of that. And they aren't offering any more money (at least not yet). Upside: I work from home and no one bugs me (though I suppose the potential for that increases with the new site).

Later in the day, I got a call from another company that I used to work for that I've been talking with (see the "uh, meeting" reference above). They have offered me a job. More money, too. Downside: I'm back in the care for 10 hours a week. And the hours are noon to 8pm.

Usually, when one has a job at A, and gets a job offer from B, one would go to his boss at A and say, "hey, boss, I just got a job offer that pays more money. How about you pony up some more cash?" Having been laid off about five times in four years, I'm always the first to say I don't owe the company a thing outside of my 40+ hours of eye bleeding drudgery, and I always say we peons are will worth the extra scratch.

Well, I'm not the brightest guy in the world. I didn't ask my current boss today for more cash. If I stay at job A, I probably won't, because they've treated me right. Just goes to show you, I'm filled with great advice, but I never listen.

i'd hammer in the morning

by mg at 02:35 PM on April 26, 2002

Spent some of the morning tweaking some of the PHP code that runs the site. There should be no visible change, but the site should pop a little faster, and maybe be less of a load on my poor server. If you notice any problems, let me know.

PS: I keep forgetting to mention, but for those (two) of you who syndicate the site using the XML feed, I haven't quite figured out how to syndicate the portal. Still, you can grab the feed from each of the sub sites separetly original bad sam | next | mg:blog | link filter. I'll get the portal feed together eventually, but would any XML guru wanna a lend a brother a hand?

the streets are paved with diamonds and there's just so much to see

by mg at 11:02 AM on April 26, 2002

If you’ve never been to New York City, or you’ve only visited, or, heck, even if you live here, you can have a distorted image of what the city is really like. The image of the city you get from movies, television, and books, that is New York, but it really isn’t the New York that New Yorkers live in.

I was just watching Woody Allen’s Manhattan today, and wished I lived in his New York. But I don’t. His New York is full of artists and writers sitting around discussing philosophy, having sex with gorgeous 17 year-olds, and playing racket ball at the 96 Street Y. Add to that Friends, Seinfeld, and Sex and the City (etc, etc) and it’s no wonder people have this skewed view of what life in this city is really like.

I live in New York. I don’t live in Woody Allen’s New York, or Sarah Jessica Parker’s New York. I live in my New York, along with most of the rest of the cities 8 million citizens. We are the New York City that lives and works and dies. We are the New York City that buys monthly Metrocards and rides the subway every day; we’d never think to take a cab. We are the New York City that reads the Post and Daily News (not the Times).

We are the New York City that were born here. We grew up here; went to P.S. 72 and I.S. 149. In the summer we played frequently interrupted games of football in the street, ran through open fire hydrants, and chased after Mr. Softee. We are the New York that first got high in Central Park, right before heading into the laser show at Hayden Planetarium.

We are the New York that says “I’m going to the city” when we really mean we are going into Manhattan. We are the New York that will never appear in movie, or have a sitcom based on our lives. We are the real New York

We are not the New York that people from Ohio, who move here expecting to make it big, ever could have imagined. Those people get here, realize how different the reality is from the fantasy, and try hard to find the New York they’d been conditioned to expect. Those of us who really live here can spot those people miles away. We know they’ll either try for a few years, give up and move back to Nebraska and settle down to a traditional Nebraskan rut. Or, they’ll figure out what New York is really all about and become one of us, joining the collective.

Or, very rarely, those people will actually make it and live that Woody Allen kind of life. The real New Yorkers despise those people, because they have something we never will; something we simultaneously hate but struggle to attain for ourselves, something we can never reconcile with our own lives, but never achieve for ourselves.

Anyway, I was talking to someone a couple days ago I wanted to show them pictures of my New York, specifically the neighborhood I live in. I don’t really have any pictures from the neighborhood I live in, so I relied on my trusty friend Google. I ran across this site, which, for some strange reason, contains about 6-7 series of pictures of Jackson Height’s architecture, sans any sort of commentary (except a small rant about gas prices!?)

Well, I was looking through the pictures when imagine my surprise to come across pictures of my apartment building. I’d tell you exactly which picture is my apartment, but I don’t want to just hand it to my stalkers on a silver platter. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned the name of my building in the past, and if you really want to dredge through the archives to find it, and then come all the way to Jackson Heights to find me, well, you deserve to chop my body up into little pieces and store them in that industrial freezer in your mom’s basement. I wont deny you that.

Still, my apartment building appears on the main page, and also a side view. I go grocery shopping at Key Food. And Legends, aka Thumbs East, is just two doors down from this shop.

And, if you want to learn more about where this real New Yorker lives, you can check this out. As for me, I’m going to go watch Manhattan again.

link of the day

by mg at 02:31 AM on April 26, 2002

Autistics Guide to Asking a Girl on a Date

Cinderella gets her slipper....

by northstar at 10:59 PM on April 25, 2002

Like a lot of people, I watched the season finale of “The Bachelor”. Hey, I was home alone and bored to death watching the Astros lose again, ok? I watched the first few minutes of the first episode, and was sickened by the premise of the whole undertaking. While I’m still not a fan of the concept, the finale interested me for several reasons:

Haven’t we been here before? Apparently, we’ve learned nothing from Darva Conger and Rick Whatever-his-name-was. While “The Bachelor” was a step above “Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire?”, it’s not a big step

Dating as a job interview: Imagine reducing interpersonal relationships to the level of a job interview. (Should I hire you to be my wife, we do offer a great benefits package…) If get an offer, do you hold out for a pre-nup??

”Survivor” in a hot tub: Alex had five weeks to narrow a field of 25 women down to “the One”. (And no one ever got the “immunity necklace”…) Just think if the women had split up into tribes and could have voted each other off the island? Now THAT would have made for some interesting television….

”Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”: Take a 31-year-old bachelor, and put him up in an ridiculously expensive, beyond-fabulous mansion. Give him an unlimited budget for food, alcohol, transportation, and condoms. What woman wouldn’t like that?? (Gee, honey, I know you like the house, but next week I have to go back to my double-wide….)

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt: What I found most disturbing about the finale was that you knew someone’s feelings were going to get hurt. Does the chase for ratings justify toying with a woman’s feelings? Granted, Trista and Amanda put themselves in such a position willingly, but I don’t think they could have imagined how emotionally engaged they would become in the end.

I suppose that, in the final analysis, “The Bachelor” falls somewhere between an arranged marriage and a job interview. The producers of the series did what they could to introduce some “normal” aspects of courtship into the show- meeting the families, for instance, but it never felt anything other than contrived. Still, if the ideal of marriage is still two people spending their lives together, can we really expect this fantasy to produce a solid, long-lasting relationship? What sort of message are we sending?

Of course, when you consider the divorce rate in this country, could they really do any worse?

it is too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes

by mg at 11:06 PM on April 24, 2002

A week or so ago, I clued you all into my knack for self-injury.

I’ve cut, burned, bumped and bruised myself so many times over the past couple weeks, I’m beginning to look Hedda Husbaum. Anyway, a couple days ago I was cooking (again. It must seem like I’m always eating) and managed to splash hot oil directly into my eye. I saw it coming at me, but I was powerless against to do anything against a simple drop of olive oil.

My eye hurt for the next couple days, which it really should have considering it was fried right there in it’s socket. I was making jokes that I’d need to start wearing goggles and padding the next time I cooked. Well, tonight was another stir fry, and I did indeed break out the goggles. Don’t believe me, see for yourself.

link of the day

by mg at 03:30 PM on April 24, 2002

Buddy Vision: Video for AIM

never thought i'd see you naked (and i was right) : Sarah Silverman

by mg at 03:00 PM on April 24, 2002

Believe me, I’ve been searching.

I spend about 9 hours a day looking, but I just haven’t come across any naked pictures of celebrities you never thought you’d see naked in months. Are today’s up and coming starlets more demure than those of yesteryear? No, that can’t be it, society is crumbling, webcam whores are getting naked all the time. Demure? My ass.

Are the paparazzi losing their touch? No, they’ve started using military surplus satellites, and are now capable of taking pictures of anyone, anywhere from hundreds of miles in orbit of the earth. I’d imagine.

No, it is the lawyers who are to blame for this. I’ve got dozens of naked pictures of Alyssa Milano, and Jennifer Aniston that I can’t ever publish because I’d be sued within seconds of clicking “post.” Damn you Dodd.

So, really the only reason I bring this up is because last night I was watching Star Trek: Voyager. It was the obligatory temporal disturbance episode that left the crew stranded on present day (well, 1996) Earth. There has never been a good time travel episode done by any of the Star Trek franchises. However, something saved this two-parter from being a total waste; that thing was a guest appearance by Sarah Silverman.

Now, the name Sarah Silverman is probably not all that familiar to you. But, you’ve certainly seen her face. She was a SNL regular for a couple years in the early 90s. Last year, she got into big trouble for using the word “Chink” during a bit on Conan O’Brien (it was obviously a joke, go picket Abercrombie and leave the hot chick alone people). She has appeared in very minor roles in plenty of minor movies and had guest roles on many series.

She is one of those faces that you see and say “Oh, oh, what the hell else has she been in? Damnit!” Or, maybe that’s just me. If you’d like to see all the places she’s appeared and all the roles she’s played (like “Raving Bitch” in The Way of the Gun), check out Silverman’s profile at the good ol’ IMDB.

She may have finally found her break out role as a TV executive on Fox’s Greg the Bunny, but watch while you can, because I’m guessing that show wont live to see another season.

After watching the Voyager episode to its dreadful conclusion, I started on a ‘net search for naked pictures of Miss Silverman. I’ve come to find out that, not only has she never posed naked in film or picture, but she has actually never been naked in her entire life. She must have sprung from her mother’s uterus, already garbed in that season’s best from Baby Gap. Or something.

She has appeared in Penthouse, though, Silverman kept all her clothes on. It was just the pair of French-kissing lesbians who took their tops off.

At any rate, here are some pictures of Sarah that, although fully clothed, are pretty darn hot anyway:
Sarah Silverman 1
Sarah Silverman 2
That second one looks to be a recreation of the fully clothed birth. Or maybe it’s just me.

I encourage you all to go learn more about Miss Silverman, and to sign this petition to get her hired on Conan O’Brien as the new Andy Richter. And if you happen to have any naked pictures, well, you know where to send them.

BSTNG 3MB

by quicksilver at 09:44 PM on April 23, 2002

Start the clock... Now!

Real life always tends to spiral out of control. Too few hours in the day after the realization of so much wasted life. Things that I should have been doing I have not been. Things I want to do I will be doing. This week will be the creation of the format that will rule everything I do for the next big chapter in my life. I just hope I don't miss something. Mondays are set, Fridays are set, Saturdays are set, Sundays are set. I just need something to fill the rest. That doesn't involve video games or silly wastes of time. Learn a damn language. I've been carrying around that Berlitz book around for weeks. Domo arigato. Konichiwa. Kombawa. That's about it. What a waste. Read more. Lord of the Rings. Up to book two already. Halfway to the destruction of Sauron. Why did he make both bad guys so alike? Three minutes. Almost there. Breath.
Like Morimoto does when he wins.

Woo!

This ol' house (Chapter 2)....

by northstar at 08:40 PM on April 23, 2002

I think the smell of carpet glue is making me delirious. I’ve been home all day while the old carpet was being ripped up and the new carpet being put down. When the workers pulled up the old carpet, I think they found Jimmy Hoffa. Methinks perhaps we should replace the carpet a little more frequently….

It sure has been a long time coming, and this means that a major part of our ongoing home-improvement program has been accomplished. Now, all we have to do is paint four more rooms and a hallway, finish painting the outside of the house (it’s been half-done for the past year), replace eight ceiling fans, clean and refinish the deck, etc., etc., etc. It seems as if it’s never done, because, well, it never is. I suppose that’s what we get for living in a 30+ year-old home. Welcome to the wonderful world of home ownership. Between the climate, the humidity, and the pests here in southeast Texas, it seems as if it’s a running battle to keep an older home together. Sometimes I feel as if we’re (just barely) one step ahead of the termites….

There are days like this when I miss the simplicity of apartment living. The faucet leaks? No problem; call the manager. Broken light switch? Same answer. It sure was a whole lot easier back then. Of course, it’s hard to feel as if you’re putting down any roots in an apartment complex. And you can’t very well add a deck to a one-bedroom walk-up, can you??

It’s nice to finally be making some progress, though. To a large degree, this whole process has been and will continue to be a 24-carat major pain in the ass. Still, the house is beginning to look better. I just wish it didn’t take so much work to get it that way….

link of the day

by mg at 02:41 PM on April 23, 2002

Only five months late, k10k finally relaunches. Woo hoo!

i sat on the roof and kicked off the moss

by mg at 11:16 AM on April 23, 2002

Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I started singing a little song to myself.

I've never been the kind of person to make up little songs. I have friends who can make up songs, instantly, about any subject. Like the "Waking Up" song, or the "Making a Sandwich" song, or "I'm stinking Drunk Tonight" song.

I always admired that ability, but could never quite master it myself. Probably because I could never quite master it myself.

I am, however, quite the master of making up silly little stories on the spot. There is a story my family tells me about one night when she was babysitting me. I was about 2-3 years old, so that would have made it 1917. It was late at night and she was trying to get to sleep. I was in the same room, in my crib, hanging with my stuffed animals. I'd gathered them around and was telling them stories. Even then I needed an audience. My teddy bears stared at me with the cold unfeeling eyes I imagine most of you have while staring at your monitors right now.

I don't remember what I was saying, or really what I am ever saying. My aunt says to her it was just babbling. Apparently I did this all the time. I still do. Babble babble babble. On this particular occasion my aunt repeatedly told me to shut my godamn mouth, until she finally got so frustrated she got out of bed and shook my like a Swedish au pair.

Anyway, the point was, I tell stories, I don't sing. But, for some strange reason I started singing last night. I started making up a little song. And the song went a little something like this:

I hate my life. I'm in a rut. I need to figure out a way to get out of this rut. Find a job and find a girl. Or else I'll starve and die. Or else I'll starve and die.

The song was sung to the tune of nothing. But, typing it now the tune in my head was Three Blind Mice. Which, for some reason, is strangely apropos.

So, I've got this rut problem. Still trying to figure it out. Maybe I should look into song writing. Does anyone want to be a Rodgers to my Hammerstein?

This ol' house....

by northstar at 05:28 PM on April 22, 2002

Being out of work has meant a huge change in my daily routine. It’s also meant that I get to try out a new role- house husband. With Susan working 50-60 hours a week, there’s a lot that needs to be done. Most of these are things that she did when I was working, but now that I have the time, I feel an obligation to pull my weight.

Since we live in a 30+ year-old home, there are a lot of things that need to be done, fixed, replaced, or all of the above. Tomorrow, for instance, we’re having new carpet installed in the back of the house. Getting the rooms ready for this has been a major pain, but I think we’ll be there by tonight. Given that the carpet is ten years old and well past its prime, it’s been an easy sacrifice to make. Tomorrow, all I really have to do is be here and tell the workers where everything goes.

Beyond that, the outside of the house is still half-painted. It’s a project we began at this time last year, but time and events conspired against us. I could probably finish that before too long, and then move on to painting the interior of the house. We also have eight ceiling fans that need to be replaced. Once those are replaced, there will be something else. There always is.

What is truly ironic about all of this is that I am in no way a handy man. I was always the last kid in shop class to finish my projects. Invariably, I would end up putting two grooves into whatever I’d constructed, and I’d call it an ashtray. This was not good if I’d started out with a bookcase.

Of course, if we were wealthy people, (which we’re not, especially since I'm without an income) we’d just hire someone to do it for us. Someone gave us a quote yesterday to paint the exterior of the house- $1500. I gulped, thanked the poor man, and decided I’d just have to do it myself. Look at the bright side, though; it sure beats sitting in front of the computer all day downloading porn….

link of the day

by mg at 02:58 PM on April 22, 2002

Raising Hell: A New Genre in Parenting (link via mormon f'er)

would you love me gagged and tied?

by mg at 11:18 AM on April 22, 2002

If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been sort of out of journaling mode the last couple weeks. Only 7 or 8 posts so far in April has got to my low water mark for the year and a half I’ve been doing this.

It isn’t that I’m sick of blogging, because that isn’t it. I still find joy in writing, and sharing, and in reading what other people have got to say about themselves (and me). It isn’t that I’m too busy, because that certainly isn’t it. I mean, I’ve watched four baseball games in the past 10 days, if that doesn’t scream that I’ve got time to kill I don’t know what would. And it isn’t that nothing worthwhile has been going on in my life; I’ve been out nearly every night over the past week, I’ve had a couple job interviews, and some good progress with the mystery date.

I’m not sure what it is exactly, and I’m not willing, at this point, to do the psychological self-inspection that would be necessary to figure out the problem. So, I’ll just write when I feel like it, and wont when I don’t. That’s about as much as I can ask of myself, and I hope as much as you’ll accept from me.

Besides, the rest of the crew has been ably picking up my slack the last couple weeks. I knew this merging blogs thing was a good idea, despite the pain in the ass it took to get it working.

So, expect a quiet mg for a while, though I do have an interesting (possibly only to me) little story from one of my birthday nights. I went out with quicksilver and eviltom (of left field comment fame). Tom insisted on telling everyone in the bar that it was my birthday. Now, I think it should be pretty obvious by now that I hate a spectacle, and can’t stand being the center of attention. Think of me as the anti-Kathy Lee.

At some point later in the evening, one of our waitresses came over, and said asked if she could sing a song for me that her and her friends sing to each other on their birthdays. Now, I was preparing to be awfully uncomfortable for a minute, but she was hot, and I can’t turn down a womanly propostion. She sort of reminded me of Alicia from Survivor Outback, only with smaller muscles and bigger boobs. So, I agreed. This was her song:

This is your birthday song, it isn’t very long

She did a very cute little jump and clap at the end that just killed me. Seriously.

If the bar wasn’t way the hell up on West 105th street, I’d have gone back up the next day, and lied about it really being my birthday that night just to hear the song again. But, come on, even I’m not that desperate. Yet.

and the joke is that the stereo just ate the mix tape that you made

by mg at 11:16 PM on April 20, 2002

I don’t think I ever mentioned it, but I participated in the first round of Burn Baby Burn. I just thought it was such a great idea. Getting mixed tapes from people around the country is just one of the coolest things about the Internet. And actually sitting down to make a mix tape for someone is one of the funnest things to obsess about. Certainly better to pour through my hugenormous music collection (25 gbs of MP3s, 600 CDs and 200 LPs), than to root through someone’s garbage in the middle of the night, disobeying restraining orders and getting threatened with a shotgun. Not that that’s ever happened to me.

So, if you know me, it is of no surprise that my discs went out a little late. For one thing, I had about 200 songs in my initial round. I cut that to about 3 hours worth of music, and came up with three different play lists. I picked my favorite, and with two play lists left over, I’m so I’m ready for Burn Baby Burn 2.

Unfortunately, I then went back and read the directions for this round and realized the CDs were supposed to have a theme, summer. So I went back to my initial 300 songs and culled out 23 songs, which turned out to be more about sex than summer. I don’t know what that says about me. I’d like to think it’s just that both sex and summer will make you all hot and sticky, but I’m sure if I was seeing a shrink a couple times a week (like the court mandated), they’d say it had something to do with my years as an altar boy.

At any rate, I sent out my CDs yesterday, only a couple days late. So far, I’ve received CDs from Antwon (plus a lovely antwon.com sticker. All I need now is a car to put it on), Teel at Fuck Yourself to Hell (great domain name!), and Chris at Flazoom (so far my favorite mix). I actually received the ones from ‘Twon and Teel on my birthday, which was a nice little surprise.

I’m still waiting for discs from Jeff at Druzba and Lisa at Windward Skies, but I can’t complain since, you know, I just sent mine out yesterday.

If you are one of the lucky five receiving disc from me and don’t want the surprise spoiled when you open the package, DON’T READ ON! Spoilers! Spoilers! Spoilers!

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I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.

So, here is the play list and a short (well, as short as I could hope to keep it) explanation for why I choose each song.

1 - Quality Control – Jurrasic 5 (fea Cut Chemist) – Quality Control

This isn’t so much a song as an introduction.

2 - Early to Bed - Morphine - Like Swimming

It is every musician’s nightmare to die on stage. Morphine’s lead singer, Mark Sandman, actually did. Heartache. Dead. Truly sad considering Morphine was a fantastic band that never quite hit their stride. This is one of their most upbeat songs, I just love the horn in this one.

3 – Car Lover – Elastica - s/t

This song makes me hot every time I hear it. The first line is “You can call me a car lover…” which, with Justine Frischmann’s sexy British accent always sounded to me like “You can call me a cunt lover…” The end.

4 – Song Against Sex – Neutral Milk Hotel – On Avery Island

For the rest of my life I will never make a mix tape that doesn’t include a Neutral Milk Hotel song. The only reason I choose this one over any other they’ve released is because this discs theme was sex, and the rest of their songs that deal with sex do so in a way that is more than a little disturbing. I don’t want to scare people here.

5 – Instant Pleasure – Rufus Wainwright – Big Daddy Soundtrack

I don’t own the Big Daddy Soundtrack, let’s just get that out of the way right now. Still, I love Rufus Wainwright and this probably one of his most accessible songs. It also really fits my mood right now because “I don’t want someone to love me, just give me sex whenever I want it.” Yeah, I’d even be willing to do Rufus at this point, he is soooo dreamy.

6 – Please Let Me Get What I Want – Halo Benders (cover - Smiths) – Not available on CD

Halo Benders are a side project from the lead singers of Built to Spill and Dub Narcotic. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, imagine Mickey Mouse and Barry White putting out an album of indie rock, and you’ll have a pretty good idea what the Halo Benders sound like. This version of The Smiths song (which is fantastic to begin with) is just divine. I haven’t removed it from my portable MP3 player in a year and a half. I don’t think I could ever get sick of this song.

7 – Cum on Feel the Noize – Bran Van 3000 (cover - Quiet Riot) – Glee

Quiet Riot as done by the Canadian dance music collective most famous for their dirge to wasted time and city living, "Drinking In L.A." from a couple summers ago. Need I say more?

8 – Let’s Pretend We’re Bunny Rabbits – Magnetic Fields – 69 Love Songs

I love the Magnetic Fields (which explains why they appear on this disc twice). This is just a nice salute to hedonism.

9 – Matador – Starlight Mints – Dream That Stuff Was Made Of

Why do I have to explain myself to you?

10 – Joyride – Built to Spill – Normal Years

“Love is just a joyride, drink a lot of beer and climb inside.” Built to Spill are from Idaho, not many bands come from Idaho. Ben Folds once wrote he’d be happy to spend the rest of his career as a Built to Spill cover band. Considering how his last album sold, that might not be such a bad idea.

11 – Luv Luv Luv – Pansy Division – Absurd Pop Song Romance

One of the few bands on this compilation I’ve seen live. I’ve always had a think for bass players, and the fact that the bass player’s dress came down half way through the show certainly colors my impression of them. He went around for the second half of the set topless, and I think he was making eyes at me after the show. Yes, I meant to say he.

12 – Fluid – Gerbils – Are You Sleepy?

One of those songs I’ll just put on repeat and listen to five or six times before moving on. I want this song played as the first dance at my wedding.

13 - Eep Opp Ork Ah-AH (Means I love you) - Violent Femmes (cover – the Jetsons) - Saturday Morning Cartoons Greatest Hits

I remember seeing this on the Jetsons. I think I only put this on here because I had the Violent Femmes in my head because I’d heard them in a bar a couple nights before. You know, on the jukebox, not in person. A really fun song.

14 - Hangover Girl - Gomez – Liquid Skin

Alcohol, sex, and the morning after. Or something.

15 – Flower – Liz Phair – live unreleased (original version on Exile in Guyville)

“Every time I see your face I think of things unpure, unchaste. I want to fuck you like a dog. I'll take you home and make you like it.”

16 – Can’t f(x) – Nothing Painted Blue – Placeholders

A song with a driving bass line (see above about love of bass players). A song with a math joke for a title. But most importantly, a song about impotence.

17 – Take Ecstasy with Me – Magnetic Fields – 69 Love Songs

Nothing more romantic than offering a loved one drugs. I’m not sure if Ecstasy helps you get it up, but this song was meant as the flip side to the previous song about impotence.

18 – Naked – Math and Science – s/t

I can certainly relate to wanting to see you naked. Whoever you are. You should send me pictures of you naked.

19 – Harder Better Faster Stronger – Daft Punk – Discovery

I was going to include Digital Love instead, but that song isn’t as cool without seeing Juliette Lewis in that Gap ad dancing with her little beret on. Hmmm, beret.

20 – Baby One More Time - Fountains of Wayne (cover - Britney Spears) – (I have no idea where this came from)

The RIAA say MP3s are destroying the industry. But how many people went out to buy a Fountains of Wayne album after downloading this song? Not me, but I’m sure there were people out there who did.

21 – Steady Slobbin’ – Prince Paul (fea. Breeze) – A Prince Among Thieves

Probably the most realistic rap song about sex ever written. Love the sample to death.

22 – Satisfaction – Cat Power (cover – Rolling Stones) – The Covers Album

Take one of the most famous songs ever, strip out it’s well know chorus, and slow it down until it becomes completely unrecognizable and you’ve still got a beautiful song.

23 – Cecilia – Simon and Garfunkel – Greatest Hits

When I was in high school, we had a yearly competition between the grades called SING. Each grade wrote, produced and preformed a musical. The songs were all covers with the words changed to fit the story. The first time I heard Cecilia was in our classes SING my junior year. The end.

24 – Zombie Slut – NIL8 - …doug

NIL8 was this band from Chicago that used to play at my college all the time. I never saw them since they broke up before I ever heard of them. Bastards. If you’ve ever seen High Fidelity there is a NIL8 sticker on the door to John Cusack’s office in the record shop.

If I knew I was going to have to write so much, I would have this an E.P.

Wong place, wong time.

by quicksilver at 08:38 AM on April 20, 2002

Abercrombie had the right idea. They just didn't have the right location in mind. West coast? What are they thinking? You release funny shit like the Wong Brother's Laundry T-Shirt: Two Wongs Can Make it White-type stuff in urban markets where nobody gives a shit. I'm tempted to go down to South Street Seaport to see if I can sift through a dumpster for all what, twelve of the shirts they had printed up. It's a damn shame nobody in the Asian Political Activist community has a damn sense of humor. Yes, I said damn twice. If anyone sees those shirts for sale somewhere, fire off an email to me. I'm going down to St. Marks place to see if the T-shirt bootleggers got started yet. Otherwise, me, and a bunch of my Rainbow Coalition friends are going to silk-screen our own t-shirts. Not two Wong brothers, but five. Maybe six. Wong Brother's Laundry. These Wongs Always Make it White.

link of the day

by mg at 10:22 PM on April 19, 2002

Americans For Purity: Winning The War On Masturbation

i don't understand how a heart is a spade

by mg at 10:17 PM on April 19, 2002

If I believed in such things, I’d say this week has some sort of special significance beyond the simple fact of the anniversary of my birth.

A year ago on my birthday, after three interviews and a month long courtship, I accepted a job with the Israelis. I regretted that decision almost immediately, and every day for the next two months. And then I quit.

I regretted that decision nearly every day for another three months until I learned they wont out of business. Fuckers.

A year earlier, again on my birthday, a much happier employment adventure began. I was still in college. I sent out dozens of resumes, and had almost as many phone interviews. Only a couple people had invited me for an in person interview, and I’d already flown to New York twice in the past month, and been offered several positions I was mulling over.

When Razorfish called me up and asked me to fly into New York on April 18th for an interview, I didn’t think I had a shot. But, seeing as my birthday is April 18th and all my family live in New York I said “sure” and packed an overnight bag. If nothing else, it was a free trip home.

Well, the interview went well, I stayed the night in New York and flew back the next morning. By the time I got back to my apartment (actually, if I remember right, I went straight to my office), I had voice mail from my Razorfish contact saying I got the job. The package they offered included twice as much money, a week more vacation, and better perks than any other company.

I took it. Obviously.

So, that was the last two years. April 18th came and went this year, and no job. No offer even. Sure, I had two interviews this week, but neither for a job I’m all in love with. I mean, if I do get an offer, I’ll take it, because I job I’m unhappy with is better than no job at this point, and while neither job is exactly what I’d like, I don’t even think I’d be unhappy. In reality, I could probably be pretty happy doing just about anything at this point, as long as it got me out of the house and a paycheck in my hand every two weeks. Jizz mopper? Sure thing, boss!

Still, though April 18th has passed, if I hear anything within the next couple days, the streak will continue. Which will give me a good excuse to quit my job next March.

and that's all i'm going to say abotu that.

by mg at 11:27 AM on April 19, 2002

the site was down for several hours this morning and last night. it's back now.

All I know is that it's a LOT of dog years...

by northstar at 05:46 PM on April 18, 2002

Happy birthday to me….
Happy birthday to me….

Like most adults, I suppose, birthdays are no longer a big deal, which is really too bad. As a kid, it was the one day out of the year when I knew I RULED. I got exactly what I wanted for dinner (always pizza), I could basically do what I wanted (not that there was much I could do), and people paid attention to me (I got presents). Now, I pretty much always have what I want for dinner (I'm an adult, right??), I still have to do things I don't want to do (go to work- if I had a job, that is), and I would be just as happy if my birthday slid by unnoticed (hey, I’m not 14 anymore). It's not always fun being reminded that I'll be eligible for the Senior PGA Tour in just eight short years. Of course, I might be more excited about that if my golf game showed some promise.

In my experience, birthdays have always been just as likely to be a bummer as not. Of course, that may be more coincidence than anything. I almost committed suicide on my 21st birthday, I got a divorce for my 30th, and I'm out of work on my 42nd. Given that kind of track record, I suppose it's understandable why I'm not planning on blowing out any candles. On the plus side, I did get the basketball and backboard I so desperately wanted for my 9th birthday, a surprise party was thrown for me in Cyprus on my 25th, and I went to a Bruce Springsteen concert on my 40th. Does it get any cooler than seeing the Boss on your 40th birthday? Well, I could think of a few things, but they all involve taking my clothes off, and this IS a family show, right??

I'm going to try not to feel sorry for myself, though. It's another day that I'm still drawing breath, and that sure as hell beats the alternative, eh?? So…happy birthday to me. Let's hope there will be many, many more....

O Brasil

by jean at 05:32 AM on April 18, 2002

I have just had every Puritan sensibility I possess shattered. In other words, I just went to a Brazilian nightclub. (In L.A.) My guy friends had to bribe the doorman to get in: $20 each. None of them had ever bribed a doorman before, and there was a lot of shuffling of feet and nervous laughter before they could muster up the courage. I didn't have to bribe; I'm a girl. But the bribing was good; I'm sure they walked in a little taller, knowing that they're men. I know I sure walked in a little taller, knowing that I'm a woman.

Inside the club was a zoo the likes of which I have never seen before. Those of you who have been to Brazilian clubs must forgive me. You might want to skip this post. It's OK, I won't feel hurt. But there was BLATANT SEX EVERYWHERE. Sex was everywhere you could see. Girls were dancing with girls in a way that would make American-club freakers blush and stare. Guys were thrusting their groins side to side in ways inconceivable to people raised in the Northern Hemisphere (myself included). Inconceivable but very, very... interesting. In a very dark, nearly empty (but deafeningly noisy) rear room, a lone girl was grinding on top of a lone guy. It was MADNESS. I don't think my eyes have been wider in my life.

Now everyone talks about Latino sensuality, that singular zest for life that they're supposed to have. I've always doubted whether it existed. Maybe they have it and maybe they don't. I knew a lot of Latinos growing up, in the suburbs of Los Angeles, and they-- upstanding immigrants from Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras, all-- didn't seem that different from me. But maybe we were all mongrel cultural melting-pot children anyways. And granted I didn't know any Brazilians. But I always take those kinds of generalizations with a big fat grain of salt because you know of all the things other peoples have said about Asians I can tell you that only 5% are true. Tonight I got a little more information with which to decide on this, as down on the dancefloor something was definitely up-- guys were squeezing my shoulders, pinching my arms, touching my hair. My male friend who was the club's regular among us excitedly suggested that the appropriate response was to grab the offending male's testicles and twist. Amidst all the noise and confusion, I realized I didn't have a clue whether or not to take him seriously. Things were breaking down fast. I was seeing stuff I'd never dreamed of seeing. People were doing stuff I'd never imagined people doing. Anything seemed possible. Should I have wrenched some testicles? No way, I was having too much fun.

You can bet that come morning I'll be on the phone with my friend, begging him to take us there again.

see people rockin’ yeah people chantin’

by mg at 11:41 PM on April 17, 2002

It was 96 degrees here in New York City today.

Do you realize how fucking hot 96 degrees is? Hot enough make someone who never swears to say “fuck” twice, that’s how fucking hot it is. I think 96 Fahrenheit translates into about 36 Celsius for my metricly gifted readers. Though, by the sound of it, that can’t possible be right. You know, I wouldn’t mind using the metric system if all the units of measurement were the same as we use now.

Anyway, it is really hot. How hot is it? It was hot enough that when I went to boil some water for coffee this morning (no, I don’t have a coffee machine), I didn’t actually have to boil the water. It came right out of the tap with bubbles in it.

No, I guess it wasn’t that hot, but it literally took no longer from the point of me turning the burner on, walking into the living room to turn on the stereo, and then walking back into the kitchen for the water to be boiling. Now, my apartment is big by New York City standards, but it isn’t a 15-minute walk. It isn’t even a 15 second walk. The end.

I think I might have to turn on the air conditioner tonight. The weather guy said it was still 84 degrees. At 11 p.m. During the second week of April.

Today was the hottest April 17th in the history of New York City, back to when the Dutch traded some dinosaurs $24 worth of jewelry for the primest piece of real estate in the world.

The previous record for this date was 88. You want to know when the last time it was even remotely hot on April 17th? The year was 1976. My mom was 8 months and 30 days pregnant. Tomorrow is supposed to be much cooler, but in 1976 my mom went through 20 hours of labor on the hottest April 18th (which was also an Easter) in New York City. Go mom!

Did I mention I had two job interviews this week? It isn’t much fun walking around in a suit when the temperature inside the body is only slightly warmer than the temperature outside the body. If it were any hotter, I’d have to stick my hand up my ass just to stay cool. The end.

I went to play tennis today. Considering I haven’t played in about 3 years, I wasn’t so bad. I hope. The end.

In case it wasn’t perfectly obvious from the above, tomorrow is my birthday. The end. Really.

Can I Supersize that for you?

by northstar at 10:01 PM on April 17, 2002

I spent this morning at a job fair in Houston, and as I looked around the crowded hotel ballroom, I was struck by two words: cattle call. Of course, in this case the livestock were wearing suits & ties and dresses, but many of the same qualities were evident: the glassy eyes, the smell of fear, the knowledge of an impending and inevitable demise. OK, so that’s a bit melodramatic, but it’s not necessarily inaccurate.

Whenever I’ve gone to a job fair, I’ve always gone with high hopes. Invariably, though, I come home with my tail between my legs (figuratively speaking, of course). I suppose I would be feeding at the trough of commerce if I were at all interested in commission sales. Unfortunately selling cars, or long-distance service, or funeral packages, interests me about as much as Chinese Water Torture. Sure, someone needs to do these things; I just don’t think it needs to be me.

The biggest problems is that the companies I want to work for aren’t at these soirees, because they’re not hiring people like me (writers). Apparently, talented writers are a dime a dozen (who knew??). So, the bottom line here is that I can have any job I want, as long as it is something I know I couldn’t stand. Hmmm…strangely enough, that doesn’t appeal to me, either.

At some point, I know I may have to face something resembling reality. Since I have a family to help support, I can’t necessarily wait for the “perfect” job to come along. With that in mind, I’ve been working on my new mantra, which, I’m told, is guaranteed to enhance my job prospects:

“WOULD YOU LIKE FRIES WITH THAT??”

The Me Project

by jasmine at 06:05 PM on April 16, 2002

It's been a while. My sickness which is called chronic laziness or lazy-ass-itis. Both have the same symptoms, failure to do stuff despite wanting to. Much time is spent on the couch lounge. In an extreme case (which it is) time is even spent away from the Internet. Because work has to be done there also, it's a good thing I actually don't work and still live at home because if I had a life, I would actually have to remove my ass from the couch.

In light of all this laziness much stuff has happened. In addition to Northstar's death my family has also suffered the same kind of death. Our not so loved but respected very old 27 inch has kicked the bucket. It was getting to the point in which you turn it on, and it makes a loud buzzing sound to warm up. There is a tv in every room of my house and this one resided in my brothers' room. And when you're five years old and you can't watch cartoons in your room at high volumes at seven o'clock in the morning........Life is sad.

The whole house when into a tv swapping frenzy which left someone without a t.v in their bedroom...this would be me. It's not like I actually watch television in there, there is a 64 inch in the living room. And when you get to see everyone that big, 19 inches can't compare. Also the large pile of clothes covering my t.v. makes it difficult to watch also.

On another note, if I haven't mentioned it yet I will be going to Venezuela at the beginning of September for the whole year. I'm pretty excited, and the prospects of meeting sexy Latin men with accents isn't bad either.

link of the day

by mg at 04:16 PM on April 16, 2002

Lascivious Grace (aka ordinay morning, aka melly, from daily sardocism's new home)

Any Excuse Will Do, Really

by muaddib at 03:27 PM on April 16, 2002

In honour of fellow bad samaritan melly's new domain name, I am proposing that, in addition to updating any links we may have to her site, we also Googlebomb her. I plagarized Shakespeare for the words, so it can also be seen as a kind of offhand Poetry Month thingie, too. In any case, lend a hand: Use the words lascivious grace to throw up a link to melly's new URL.

Real Problems in the Church

by eric at 08:16 AM on April 16, 2002

So the Pontiff has asked all the Cardinals in the United States of America to head out to the boot for a talk about why it's very, very bad for celibate old men to touch little boys.

Better 1000 years late than never, I always say.

Here's a nice recipe for disaster: Start grooming young men for a life of sexless servitude to God by putting them in a room filled with Catholic School Girls (or CSGs) showing more leg than a clown on stilts. These boys later take a vow saying they'd like to swear off seeing leg, or anything else, ever again. What genius thought this would work? (Though what's more likely the cause of the church's current public relations FUBAR is that most priests go for the job because they were confused gay teenagers who felt that becoming a man of the cloth would assuage their guilt over their feelings. They enter a celibate lifestyle having never been laid. Ever. Strangely, this does not make them any less homosexual. Just frustrated. They find themselves at middle age surrounded by young alter boys the likes of which gave them that first chubby when they were young. Sadly for them, this isn't ancient Greece.)

But I think it's high time the Vatican made some changes to what is probably the most prevalent sexual problem facing the Catholic faith today– and especially it's onlookers, like me. I'm speaking, of course, about the typical uniforms worn by the CSGs.

I don't think it's any secret that even long before Britney Spears was begging her baby to hit her one more time, the oh-so-short plaid skirts, button down shirts, and white hose found on the typical CSGs have been arousing the libido of males age 12 to 89 for years and years. Even the ugliest most gangly of pock-faced teens looks like a trollop waiting for love when in that uniform.

I personally find myself trying to drive downtown in my hometown around 2:30pm any day I can to watch the Catholic high school let out on Main Street. I almost drove into a mother picking up her child once while watching a CSG carry her books. The horror must stop, and I implore John Paul II to focus his attention on this problem before I scuff up a bumper.

The Man of my Dreams

by snaggle at 10:48 PM on April 15, 2002

The man of my dreams:

Understands when I have to do schoolwork.
Understands when I don't want to have sex.
Does want to have sex sometimes.
Can handle himself at a party without me.
Is outgoing.
Is compassionate.
Is romantic, but understands if I'm not sometimes.
Says "I love you" when I need to hear it.
Gives good backrubs.
Can be the life of the party, but doesn't have to be the center of attention (always.)
Can talk about Wittgenstein and Britney Spears.
Can cook.
Can dance.
Dresses decently.
Compliments other people.
Reads. Voraciously.
Thinks about more than boys.
Wants to be more than just friends.

Any takers? I'm accepting applications.

link of the day

by mg at 09:08 PM on April 15, 2002

Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Jingle Lyrics

Hey pretty baby with the high heels on

by melly at 08:51 PM on April 15, 2002

Okay, I'll save us some time. If you were at Crabby Jack's last night, yes, that was me standing on a chair singing along with Michael Jackson's The Way You Make Me Feel. And I'm not ashamed!

It started out a very simple evening at a simple restaurant having simple drinks and simple conversation with a girl with black teeth. Yeah, I don't know what that was about. Buy a toothbrush. I listened to Harriss talk about diddling with his wife, his son's asthma attacks, and how much it sucks to work a whole 16 hours a week. Thank God he had to go back to work.

Some time later we moved to the bar. Not because I wanted to pick up on anyone but because the lighting at the table was bad. Oh, kiss my blogless ass. I noticed right away, the type of man who looks at me. It's not the type to my right. The macro economic thermo dynamic physicist type. No, it's the type to my left. The "I breed sheep" type. Quit staring at me.

The cute bartender threw some hissy fit about being called a bitch by some other guy so he left. Moe asked if I wanted to call him and invite him to Crabby Jack's. I thought of Bridgette Jones. I said no to the emotional fuckwit magnet in me.

Some time later a man saddled up next to me. It wasn't long before he asked me if I was having a bad day. Perhaps it was the pure Jim Beam I was drinking. Perhaps it was the fact that my shirt was buttoned wrong. Perhaps it was because I mentioned twenty times in the span of 45 minutes that I was having a bad day.

But I responded with,"Bad year." Way to go Mel, get that negativity right out there, but hold off on the "My sister is dead" and "My dad is a recovering alcoholic" stories- you don't want to turn the guy on too much.

Conversation. Poetry. Full Metal Jacket. My son. Oklahoma.

Two reservists come in and start bugging me for a cigarette. I tell them to buy me a drink if they want a cigarette. I tell them nothing about or on me is free. Poetry man starts in on military talk (he's in the Air Force). I tell Tara it's time to head out. She invited Poetry man. In the car outside I try to get her to leave without him but she insists on waiting at least 2 minutes 46 seconds when he pulls up behind us in his PT Cruiser.

I was very drunk.

By the time we got to Crabby Jack's I was already being a little too friendly with the town's folk. Karaoke ... can't spell it, enjoy it while blitzed though. Poetry man is really into the melly. He's buying her drinks because she tells him to. He wants to take her to dinner tomorrow night.

I've sung my Michael J., drank my 100th drink, I'm ready to go home. He insists on going along with. Tara is okay with that. Whatever. Just take me home. He walks me to my door. Says I won't call him tomorrow (today, and I didn't). Asks me for a kiss. I say no. I play some Southern Belle shit I don't know.

I really liked him actually. I just realized at the point we were at the door that I was not ready. I was not ready to swap spit with a fly guy. Or any guy. So next time I'll drink way more and try it on with a girl.

I could check this for typos. Fuck it. I'm going to go eat the other half of that watermelon and think of ways in which I will mutilate a certain someone if ever given the opportunity. Maybe I'll call Poetry Man back and apologize for not kissing him. Then when he asks if we can go out tonight and kiss, I will say no because he's only attractive when I'm drunk and I really am in no mood for bourbon.

So long, Big Guy; we'll miss you.

by northstar at 06:44 PM on April 15, 2002

We had a death in the family this weekend. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, and the passing was, thankfully, quiet and painless. Yep, our old 51-inch television finally bit the dust. After an expensive trip to the TV emergency room last summer, we managed to buy some time, and for awhile life was good. Sadly, the Big Guy had shown signs of fading lately, and when my wife came to bed on Saturday night, she gave me the bad news. I must not have taken it too badly; I think I rolled over and went right back to sleep.

This untimely passing has occasioned a crisis of sorts in our family. Eric has a television in his room; well, he had one until Susan managed to convince him to move it out into the living room. Left to his own devices, Eric would watch TV 26 hours a day, so moving the television out of his room was a real sacrifice on his part. Being down to only one television means that we are all going to have to make some compromises. Eric tends to watch the Disney Channel, Nickolodeon, and the Cartoon Network, none of which even remotely appeal to me. I want to watch hockey, especially now that the Stanley Cup Playoffs are about to begin. Of course, this drives Susan nuts. Susan, though, is probably the most reasonable one, preferring to leave the television off altogether. Unfortunately for her, she is stuck between her husband and her son, both of whom want to be Alpha Male when it comes to the remote control.

So, what we have here is a standoff. You wouldn’t think that a television would have the potential to create so much family conflict, but it’s the only thing we have just one of. We have two cell phones, two telephones, and two computers. Sometimes that seems a little silly, but would you want to wrestle a teenager for a computer? I didn’t think so. I think we’ll settle this with dueling pistols at 20 paces.

It’s going to be interesting to see how we handle the loss. The Big Guy served us well and faithfully, and now he is gone. Now we just have to figure out where to hide the body….

National Poetry Month

by space at 01:54 AM on April 15, 2002

I've been hyping National Poetry Month on my site for a while now, but to be honest, I feel like I've been preaching to the choir over there. SpaceCheese readers were reading Wallace Stevens and Robert Browning while they were still hanging from their mother's teats. The readers that is. I know nothing about Browning's and Eliot's mothers' breasts.

Anyway, I've been neglecting the education of you Bad Samaritan readers. Let's face it, you've not come here because you're looking for Edna St. Vincent Millay. You're here because you want to talk about how big your penis is, or you want to see Betty White naked. Clearly, this is where the battle must be fought.

But if you have any pictures of Edna St. Vincent Millay naked, you may send them here.

The poet I'd like to introduce you to today is Beau Sia. He wrote a book a few years ago called a night without armor II: the revenge. It's an homage to a work by an earlier poet whose origins are mysterious. She appears to have been a poet in the troubadour tradition: she travelled the land, singing her poems to weary farmers and squalid tradespeople, despised by the authorities and living in the most meager circumstances. Even her last name is lost to us. We know her only as Jewel.

Sia has attempted to reconstruct some of Jewel's poetry, guided only by the titles of her works. This is one of them.

the tangled roots of willows

is a subject
I'm not too
familiar with.

what I am familiar with
is when
I wake up
and have
an erection

Do you see what you're missing, Bad Samaritan readers? There's a whole universe out there that isn't about penis size and naked celebrites! You could be reading, expanding your mind and your horizons!

coffee shop

I used to hang out
at medina's
on wednesdays
in oklahoma.

last on the
open mic,
wild-eyed and skinny
(oh, to be skinny!)
I learned
about limits.

always trying to
pick up girls.

all girls at arms length

love poetry
is in no equations
for
getting laid.

look at me now.

I hope that Mr. Sia's works inspire you to further explore the world of poetry. Intellectual delights can be as rewarding as carnal ones, my friends. Lift your eyes above your groins and let the simple majesty of poetry, of one poet speaking to another across time, carry you heavenward!

miracle

all pussies
in the universe
suddenly
only
fit me.

link of the day

by mg at 07:03 PM on April 14, 2002

Quarter Life Crisis

why ask why ask why?

by mg at 07:01 PM on April 14, 2002

I should write something today. Really, I should. I have things to say, and words to say them with. Still, I want to do nothing more than shut the fuck up. Just because no one has posted anything in two days, doesn't mean I have to write something, does it? Where is everybody? Okay, shutting the fuck up now.

link of the day

by mg at 04:21 PM on April 13, 2002

Only 5 shopping days till a certain special someone's birthday (via my mom)

Clean it bitch

by emma at 08:14 PM on April 12, 2002

After a little gentle persuasion i realised that it would be selfish to hold back all the sordid details so open your hearts to the pleasures of brothel sanitation.

Seriously though it wasn't fun, in fact it was immensely depressing, the brothel itself was dank and generally frequented by junkie girls looking for a quick fuck for quick cash for that next fix.

Hence to say those rubber gloves were much needed.

All surfaces were tacky to the touch, the carpet was stained so badly it would have been impossible to tell you what its original colour was. The beds so badly soiled, i never saw a sheet in the time i worked there.

The bins, oh the bins, emptying them was an experience that required no looking or breathing, just tip that baby straight into a bag. Needles, used condoms, discarded tissues, bloody tissues and other vile detrius.

No dildo's, whips, chains, no dirty mags, and no videos, humph, what kind of working conditions were these? I mean really, what was a girl supposed to do in her coffee break?

For all those expecting some filthy details enjoy this little anecdote.
I had this crazy canadian friend who was shagging some dodgy aussie bloke. During a more regular cleaning stint (at home) i was rearranging a few ornaments and happened upon a candle. While clutching it in my hand, the mad canadian piped up "i wouldn't touch that if i were you" i looked at her naively as if to say why not? She then proceeded to inform me of some lewd acts her and the aussie had performed the previous evening, involving penetration of said waxy article into a selection of orifices, it was at this point i squealed and fainted.

I wonder if there's a connection between that and my obsessive compulsive disorder?

Pass the soap please.

it was 365 days ago today, and sgt. penis taught the band to play

by mg at 07:30 PM on April 12, 2002

The single most popular post in Bad Samaritan history has got to be Inadequate No Longer. Though that is it’s name, that isn’t the way I think of it when I think of it, and I think of it often.

Because of Google, and some strange happenstance, I will always refer to it as the post about the World’s Largest Penis, even though it has nothing to do with that at all. I think of it that way, because through no effort of my own, it is listed on Google as the number one resource for the world’s largest penis, and in the top ten for several other variations (like cock, dick, etc).

Though, I had nothing to do with it reaching such lofty search engine heights, I am infinitely amused. In fact, I want my epitaph to read:

Google thought he had the world’s largest penis.

Because of most male's preoccupation with their dick size, this post gets at least 100 views every single day. Strangely, today, exactly one year after the penis post was originally written, it gets the funniest comment, ever:

I have a 30 inch cock that is about as thick as a can of soup. It accounts for about 23% of my body weight, and it has a separate heart from my own. I have ruptured 3 women and they love it. I am only 7 years old. I am insecure about the size of my dick, and wondered how I can gain more girth. Am I measuring right? I start at the middle of my back.

Go read the post, and what 60 others had to say about their dicks. I gaurantee that, unlike with your last boyfriend, it wont be a disapointing way to spend five minutes.

link of the day

by mg at 06:45 PM on April 12, 2002

we made out in a tree and this old guy sat and watched us

Natural Born Scrubber Freaks Out

by emma at 05:37 AM on April 12, 2002

Months ago, i saw a post about worst jobs ever on the site of one of my regular reads Vodkabird.
After spending Easter in Amsterdam it all came flooding back to me.
My worst job ever........
It was in Amsterdam, it was towards the end of my time living there, the drugs had done their worst, i was ravaged, exhausted and world weary.....but thats another story.

I worked illegally although thats not unusual in fact among the group of people that i hung out with it was fairly commonplace......you just took up any job going because you never knew when or where the next paycheck would come from. I was lucky, as soon as i arrived in Amsterdam i scored a job, and worked unhindered in a variety of positions for almost the entire time i lived there. That was until one day i was fired.........for being unreliable, a fruit loop and generally one sandwich short of a picnic. Ok, ok, i admit i spent too much of my time partying and off my face..... but like i said, thats another story.

So i was fired, this meant i had to take drastic action so i became a cleaner.
Now i have no problem with cleaning its just that well, you'll see......

Getting back to my story, i cleaned a few hotels even a bar but the lowpoint of my time in Amsterdam was when i became (grab your full body protective suits) a brothel cleaner!

I would assume that most people would know that Amsterdam is infamous for its relaxed approach to prosititution, to the point of legalisation. This, however, did not make my job anymore palatable.

*snap, snap*

The sound of me pulling on my extra strong, extra long rubber gloves. Damp tissue anyone?

Prior to that delightful career sidestep was worst job ever No.2. Working as a waitress at an illegal casino, again in Amsterdam. (picking up on the running themes?)

Well the job was a doddle and the money was phenomenal, so what was so bad about that huh? Well the owners, whoever the hell they were, never sacked their waitresses and they grew tired of them at an alarming rate (fresh faces were good for business i discovered at a later date).

Oh no being sacked would be too simple...these guys just hired a indebted regular, usually a freak and he would scare you away. In my case this guy would sit night after night just staring at me and hanging around the dark stairwell after my shift, well me being halfway to a head fuck myself (as i've said another story) i wasn't going to hang around waiting for some thing really bad to happen and left.

My god it sounds so creepy now that i've put it in writing, at the time i just took it all in my stride, it was as normal as making a cup of tea, shit i've gone and freaked myself out!

tick tock tick tock tick tock

by mg at 09:35 PM on April 11, 2002

I am injured.

In the past week or two, I’ve managed to cut, burn, and bruise myself more times than I’ve got fingers left to count.

It all began one evening while using my wonderful (and entirely too sharp) knives. I was slicing something (great chef I am, it was probably just a bagel) and I forgot, for a moment, how good a knife it is, and I sliced through the bagel so quickly I clipped my finger. It didn’t hurt at all, except for the shock of having cut oneself. I was more upset with myself than I was hurt. At least that’s what I thought.

When I got over being pissed off at myself, I looked down at my finger, which was spurting blood. I ran into the bathroom, dripping blood all the way down the hallway, and got the cut cleaned up. When I’d washed enough of the blood off to actually see the cut, I realized that if the cut were any deeper, you’d all have to start calling me Bobby Ojeda.

If that weren’t bad enough a couple days later, just as the cut started to heal, I was cutting a bagel (again) and managed to cut myself (again). But wait, I didn’t just cut myself (again), I cut myself in the exact same spot. The knife actually slipped into existing cut, managed to open it up again. I was left with a piece of skin flapping in the wind like a broken shutter during the tornado scene in The Wizard of Oz.

I cut myself a couple more times in the last week or so, but my mishaps aren’t limited to poor cutlery use. When I was moving things out of my grandmother’s apartment, a finger got caught between a box and a doorjamb, breaking a nail and causing more blood loss. Last weekend, I splattered hot olive oil on my arm (good thing I wasn’t pulling a naked chef).

The latest mishap came the day before yesterday. I had been doing a little spring cleaning, polishing up my wood. Furniture. Apparently I was a little bit sloppy with that can of pledge, because I got some of that slippery lemon spray all over my hardwood floors. I have this habit, especially when I’ve been cooped up in the house too long, of running every time I need to get from one room to the next. You should also see my Dukes of Hazards move every time I need to get something on the far side of my bed (but my bedroom acrobatics are a story for an entirely different post).

If it isn’t perfectly obvious, running and slippery wood make for plenty of America’s Funniest Home Video moments. I’d already fallen a couple times, but with no serious injury. That good luck couldn’t last forever. I was hastily rounding the corner from my living room into the hallway, when disaster finally struck. My feet flew out from underneath me, and I slammed, big toe first, into the wall.

It hurt like a mofo, but I think people falling down is funny, even when I’m the one succumbing to the forces of gravity and poor balance. I got up and did the one-legged hoppy-owchy dance, and started to walk it off. I made it into the bedroom, of course having completely forgotten what I’d only just a few seconds before been in such a hurry to recover. As I walked back into the living room to retrace my mental steps, I noticed a Die Hard like trail of bloody footprints. I looked down, and noticed a steady stream of blood, and an already blackening big toe nail.

I put my shoes on this morning and had to leave the right untied because the pressure was just too much. Today, I walk with a limp. Tomorrow, who knows what body part I’ll lose.

link of the day

by mg at 03:44 PM on April 11, 2002

Things Other People Accomplished When They Were Your Age (link via monoki)

egad, a base tone denotes a bad age

by mg at 12:19 PM on April 11, 2002

I’ve had no luck with my hosted sub domains.

Of the 8 people I’ve set up, 4 have immediately disappeared off the face of the earth. One minute they were excited to move, had set up their content management system and even prepared a new design. But, by the time the sun came up the next morning their email address was suspended, their phone numbers changed, and their parents had forgotten their name.

The other four people, immediately upon the new sub domain propagating, decided what they really needed was their own domain name. I don’t know why, but it seems as if they found the idea of a sub on Bad Samaritan so repugnant, so distasteful, that they spent $25 on a domain name, and agreed to a $10 / month hosting plan just to get out of actually having to move in with me.

Well, my average gets a little better as Jaded Munki returns from the dead. Go there now.

Thanks to Jaded Munki, a local boy done good, I've been inspired to reopen the call for anyone who might want a Bad Samaritan sub domain. Do you want a Bad Samaritan sub domain? Those who are thinking of buying their own domain, those who are planning on joining the witness protection agency, and the Irish need not apply.

"There but for the grace of God..."

by northstar at 03:59 PM on April 10, 2002

It's always interesting, and more than a little uncomfortable, watching people's reactions when they find out I've been laid off and am (GASP!!) unemployed. People get this "there but for the grace of God, go I..." look in their eyes, and it says to me what they're probably thinking: "…dead man walking". It's as if everyone wants to help, but no one quite knows what to do with or for me. I appreciate the sentiment, but it can be a bit unnerving, and even somewhat humiliating. Like all of us, I've been on both sides of this fence, and they're both difficult (although working does beat the alternative). As the unemployed one, I hate feeling like something is wrong with me. When I am employed and meet someone who isn't, I feel helpless, because I know there really isn't much I can do except offer moral support. The rules of social engagement aren't really designed to deal with someone suspended in career limbo.

Right now, there seems to be a whole lot of nothing out there, and people who are gainfully employed simply do not understand how difficult it is to find a decent job. Sure, I could work at Starbuck's or Popeye's, but I have a family to help support. We can make it (sort of) on one salary, but how long can Susan continue to juggle the bills? I don't envy her position, either.

My biggest challenge is to remain positive. I hate the position I find myself in, but it's not my fault. It's not as if I quit my job, rather that my job quit me- but that's another story I really don't want to get into now. Let's just say that after being laid off twice in the past 10 months, I'm a bit touchy. I can understand why workers go postal (though I’m not about to, just in case anyone is wondering…) and how some people can go off the deep end. I’m fortunate; I have a good support system behind me, but all of the support in the world can feel like not nearly enough at times. I just wish it didn’t have to be like this….

National Poetry Month

by shar at 03:38 PM on April 10, 2002

I run a terribly designed personal site. Through the glory of the Internet, I get fanmail that I classify under two distinct categories: fun or scary. Sometimes it's hard to see where to draw the line. I recently received an e-mail with the Subject line "haikus" and a body consisting entirely of poems. No explanation, no greeting, no pictures, nada. So, in honor of National Poetry Month, I present haikus randomly sent to me by Larry P. Thanks Larry!

my itchy asshole
i scratch hard and profusely
here, smell my finger

squeeze my finger sir
i must let out some ass air
stay enjoy the smell

cheesy toes have i
creamy, chunky and smelly
scoop it and eat it

one day very soon
i will stop jerking off fast
but not so damn soon

What would YOU do??

by northstar at 03:24 PM on April 09, 2002

In about a month, my wife and I will be going to the Twin Cities for my 20-year college reunion. This trip does bring up some unfinished business for me. Most of the business is unfinished for a reason, and is likely to stay that way. There is one thing, though, that I feel the need to resolve, though I’m not sure how badly I want to.

My parents and I have been estranged for years. It would take too long to go into the whys and wherefores; suffice it to say that there have been plenty of hard feelings (on my end- I can’t speak for them) over the years. Because of this, I’ve seen my parents twice over the past 15 years. They’re not that old, really. Dad is 64 and Mom 61, but in the back of my mind, I know they’re not going to be there forever.

The question for me, then, is whether or not to visit them while we’re in Minnesota. They live outside a small time in southwestern Wisconsin, perhaps a three or four-hour drive from St. Paul. I have no illusions that we will actually have anything in common, but my wife and my brothers have been hoping for years that I will break the silence. Lord knows Mom and Dad won’t. My mother refuses to discuss anything more controversial than the weather, and Dad won’t do anything to upset Mom. In my family, denial is a river that races straight through downtown, barely an inch or two below flood stage. I know that it won’t hurt anything for me to agree to see them. I did, after all, send them a Christmas gift last year, so they know I’m still out there.

I am their oldest son, and were I in their shoes, I’m sure I would be wondering if I would ever have another opportunity to see my first-born. Though I have two stepsons, I have no children of my own, so I probably can’t come close to understanding what they feel when they think about me. For me, my parents have long been a non-issue. I have long since come to grips with the reality that they were not going to be a part of my life. I can live with that, because I have for years. But do I want to continue to act as if they don’t exist? Not even I am that heartless.

I would be interested in finding out what anyone reading this thinks. I think I already know what I’m going to do. Still, some impartial viewpoints might be helpful, and it’s not very often I ask for advice. So, while said advice may not have a bearing on my final decision, it would be helpful nonetheless….

we are young, heartache to heartache we stand

by mg at 11:04 PM on April 08, 2002

I think I’ve mentioned before my guilty love of Seventh Heaven on the WB. If you’ve never seen the show, picture the Brady Bunch with god and lots of really attractive teenagers. I’m not even going to go into why I like the show (though Jessica Beil does play a very big part of it), but I do. And since I’ve gotten turned onto it, I’ve managed to turn on a couple more people, who all h