by mg at 10:34 PM on April 30, 2002
Iím 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. Iíve actually heard the word ďendearingĒ twice in the past week, which, while not quite as powerful an adjective as ďsexyĒ, is certainly better than ďrevolting.Ē
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 havenít asked her how she got the scar, and maybe I wonít. 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 girlís name.
Now, this would hardly be a disaster at this stage of our ďwhateverĒ (donít wanna say relationship just yet). Iím a good liar, and could have made up a story. In fact, I probably could have told the truth and sheíd have laughed it off.
It wasnít a serious disaster at all, especially since I caught myself. But what is sort of the disaster is how inept I am at dating. Iím 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 Iíd just let her in, sheíd have done nasty things to me. It wasnít 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 Iím learning.
Two dates in three nights has to count for something. And Iím pretty sure I didnít 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, Iím no Fonzie, and probably never will be, but Iím learning; ten years late, but Iím learning.
by mg at 10:32 PM on April 30, 2002
a totally l33t guide to Romeo and Juliet (link via my gay friend tom)
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.
by mg at 09:51 PM on April 29, 2002
I suppose it only fair that I do my wrap up of Choireís 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 Iíve 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, didnít come out with us. Something about getting smashed in the face with fastball. Whatever. So, because I didnít 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 Iím tough. Damnit. Iíd 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 Chorieís place. Choire is actually pronounced Cory. I may call him that to his face (that or ďlove-monkeyĒ), but heíll 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.
Choireís apartment is cute. It could probably fit into my living room, but cute, the kind of place all my friendís parents who lived in Manhattan had. Which was oddly disturbing; I kept expecting an adult to walk in and glare at all his underage childís 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; Iím 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 wasnít that bad after all.
Other people streamed into the party, most noticeably Chris from Uffish. I havenít met many NYC Bloggers (though I met a few later into the party), and if they were all as cool as her, theyíd 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 Andyís Chest and Scott of Neurotic Jew. Like me, they are two unemployed dot.com types. Iíd 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 didnít 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. Thatíll wash off easy.
by mg at 09:48 PM on April 29, 2002
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.
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 peopleís 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 havenít really panned out for the second date, until tonight. Since the first date, weíve 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 sheíd 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 didnít 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 Ďhood 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 Iíve ever seen. Iíd find myself staring at it, thinking, she just said mail but her mouth didnít take the voiced bilabial nasal shape.
Iím 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.
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.
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 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?
by mg at 11:02 AM on April 26, 2002
If youíve never been to New York City, or youíve 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 isnít the New York that New Yorkers live in.
I was just watching Woody Allenís Manhattan today, and wished I lived in his New York. But I donít. 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 itís no wonder people have this skewed view of what life in this city is really like.
I live in New York. I donít live in Woody Allenís New York, or Sarah Jessica Parkerís 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; weíd 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 ďIím going to the cityĒ 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 theyíd been conditioned to expect. Those of us who really live here can spot those people miles away. We know theyíll either try for a few years, give up and move back to Nebraska and settle down to a traditional Nebraskan rut. Or, theyíll 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 donít 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 Heightís 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. Iíd tell you exactly which picture is my apartment, but I donít want to just hand it to my stalkers on a silver platter. Iím pretty sure Iíve 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 momís basement. I wont deny you that.
Like a lot of people, I watched the season finale of ďThe BachelorĒ. 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 Iím still not a fan of the concept, the finale interested me for several reasons:
Havenít we been here before? Apparently, weíve learned nothing from Darva Conger and Rick Whatever-his-name-was. While ďThe BachelorĒ was a step above ďWho Wants To Marry A Millionaire?Ē, itís 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 packageÖ) If get an offer, do you hold out for a pre-nup??
ĒSurvivorĒ in a hot tub: Alex had five weeks to narrow a field of 25 women down to ďthe OneĒ. (And no one ever got the ďimmunity necklaceĒÖ) 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 televisionÖ.
ĒLifestyles of the Rich and FamousĒ: 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 wouldnít like that?? (Gee, honey, I know you like the house, but next week I have to go back to my double-wideÖ.)
Itís all fun and games until someone gets hurt: What I found most disturbing about the finale was that you knew someoneís feelings were going to get hurt. Does the chase for ratings justify toying with a womanís feelings? Granted, Trista and Amanda put themselves in such a position willingly, but I donít think they could have imagined how emotionally engaged they would become in the end.
I suppose that, in the final analysis, ďThe BachelorĒ falls somewhere between an arranged marriage and a job interview. The producers of the series did what they could to introduce some ďnormalĒ 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?
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.
Iíve cut, burned, bumped and bruised myself so many times over the past couple weeks, Iím beginning to look Hedda Husbaum. Anyway, a couple days ago I was cooking (again. It must seem like Iím 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 itís socket. I was making jokes that Iíd 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. Donít believe me, see for yourself.
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.
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.
I think the smell of carpet glue is making me delirious. Iíve 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 frequentlyÖ.
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 (itís been half-done for the past year), replace eight ceiling fans, clean and refinish the deck, etc., etc., etc. It seems as if itís never done, because, well, it never is. I suppose thatís 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 itís a running battle to keep an older home together. Sometimes I feel as if weíre (just barely) one step ahead of the termitesÖ.
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, itís hard to feel as if youíre putting down any roots in an apartment complex. And you canít very well add a deck to a one-bedroom walk-up, can you??
Itís 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 didnít take so much work to get it that wayÖ.
by mg at 02:41 PM on April 23, 2002
Only five months late, k10k finally relaunches. Woo hoo!
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?
Being out of work has meant a huge change in my daily routine. Itís also meant that I get to try out a new role- house husband. With Susan working 50-60 hours a week, thereís 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, weíre having new carpet installed in the back of the house. Getting the rooms ready for this has been a major pain, but I think weíll be there by tonight. Given that the carpet is ten years old and well past its prime, itís 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. Itís 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 Iíd constructed, and Iíd call it an ashtray. This was not good if Iíd started out with a bookcase.
Of course, if we were wealthy people, (which weíre not, especially since I'm without an income) weíd 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 Iíd just have to do it myself. Look at the bright side, though; it sure beats sitting in front of the computer all day downloading pornÖ.
by mg at 02:58 PM on April 22, 2002
by mg at 11:18 AM on April 22, 2002
If you havenít noticed, Iíve 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 Iíve been doing this.
It isnít that Iím sick of blogging, because that isnít it. I still find joy in writing, and sharing, and in reading what other people have got to say about themselves (and me). It isnít that Iím too busy, because that certainly isnít it. I mean, Iíve watched four baseball games in the past 10 days, if that doesnít scream that Iíve got time to kill I donít know what would. And it isnít that nothing worthwhile has been going on in my life; Iíve been out nearly every night over the past week, Iíve had a couple job interviews, and some good progress with the mystery date.
Iím not sure what it is exactly, and Iím not willing, at this point, to do the psychological self-inspection that would be necessary to figure out the problem. So, Iíll just write when I feel like it, and wont when I donít. Thatís about as much as I can ask of myself, and I hope as much as youíll 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 canít 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 canít 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 isnít very long
She did a very cute little jump and clap at the end that just killed me. Seriously.
If the bar wasnít way the hell up on West 105th street, Iíd 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 Iím not that desperate. Yet.
by mg at 11:16 PM on April 20, 2002
I donít 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 someoneís garbage in the middle of the night, disobeying restraining orders and getting threatened with a shotgun. Not that thatís 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, Iím so Iím 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 donít know what that says about me. Iíd like to think itís just that both sex and summer will make you all hot and sticky, but Iím sure if I was seeing a shrink a couple times a week (like the court mandated), theyíd 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, Iíve 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 ĎTwon and Teel on my birthday, which was a nice little surprise.
If you are one of the lucky five receiving disc from me and donít want the surprise spoiled when you open the package, DONíT READ ON! Spoilers! Spoilers! Spoilers!
Iíve 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 Ė Jurrasic 5 (fea Cut Chemist) Ė Quality Control
This isnít so much a song as an introduction.
2 - Early to Bed - Morphine - Like Swimming
It is every musicianís nightmare to die on stage. Morphineís 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 Ė Car Lover Ė Elastica - s/t
This song makes me hot every time I hear it. The first line is ďYou can call me a car loverÖĒ which, with Justine Frischmannís sexy British accent always sounded to me like ďYou can call me a cunt loverÖĒ The end.
4 Ė Song Against Sex Ė Neutral Milk Hotel Ė On Avery Island
For the rest of my life I will never make a mix tape that doesnít include a Neutral Milk Hotel song. The only reason I choose this one over any other theyíve 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 donít want to scare people here.
5 Ė Instant Pleasure Ė Rufus Wainwright Ė Big Daddy Soundtrack
I donít own the Big Daddy Soundtrack, letís 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 ďI donít want someone to love me, just give me sex whenever I want it.Ē Yeah, Iíd even be willing to do Rufus at this point, he is soooo dreamy.
6 Ė Please Let Me Get What I Want Ė Halo Benders (cover - Smiths) Ė 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 Iím talking about, imagine Mickey Mouse and Barry White putting out an album of indie rock, and youíll 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 havenít removed it from my portable MP3 player in a year and a half. I donít think I could ever get sick of this song.
7 Ė Cum on Feel the Noize Ė Bran Van 3000 (cover - Quiet Riot) Ė 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 Ė Letís Pretend Weíre Bunny Rabbits Ė Magnetic Fields Ė 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 Ė Matador Ė Starlight Mints Ė Dream That Stuff Was Made Of
Why do I have to explain myself to you?
10 Ė Joyride Ė Built to Spill Ė Normal Years
ďLove is just a joyride, drink a lot of beer and climb inside.Ē Built to Spill are from Idaho, not many bands come from Idaho. Ben Folds once wrote heíd 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 Ė Luv Luv Luv Ė Pansy Division Ė Absurd Pop Song Romance
One of the few bands on this compilation Iíve seen live. Iíve always had a think for bass players, and the fact that the bass playerís 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 Ė Fluid Ė Gerbils Ė Are You Sleepy?
One of those songs Iíll 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 Ė 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 Iíd 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 Ė Liquid Skin
Alcohol, sex, and the morning after. Or something.
15 Ė Flower Ė Liz Phair Ė live unreleased (original version on Exile in Guyville)
ďEvery 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.Ē
16 Ė Canít f(x) Ė Nothing Painted Blue Ė 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 Ė Take Ecstasy with Me Ė Magnetic Fields Ė 69 Love Songs
Nothing more romantic than offering a loved one drugs. Iím 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 Ė Naked Ė Math and Science Ė s/t
I can certainly relate to wanting to see you naked. Whoever you are. You should send me pictures of you naked.
19 Ė Harder Better Faster Stronger Ė Daft Punk Ė Discovery
I was going to include Digital Love instead, but that song isnít as cool without seeing Juliette Lewis in that Gap ad dancing with her little beret on. Hmmm, beret.
20 Ė Baby One More Time - Fountains of Wayne (cover - Britney Spears) Ė (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 Iím sure there were people out there who did.
21 Ė Steady Slobbiní Ė Prince Paul (fea. Breeze) Ė A Prince Among Thieves
Probably the most realistic rap song about sex ever written. Love the sample to death.
22 Ė Satisfaction Ė Cat Power (cover Ė Rolling Stones) Ė The Covers Album
Take one of the most famous songs ever, strip out itís well know chorus, and slow it down until it becomes completely unrecognizable and youíve still got a beautiful song.
23 Ė Cecilia Ė Simon and Garfunkel Ė 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 Ė Zombie Slut Ė NIL8 - Ödoug
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 youíve ever seen High Fidelity there is a NIL8 sticker on the door to John Cusackís office in the record shop.
If I knew I was going to have to write so much, I would have this an E.P.
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.
by mg at 10:22 PM on April 19, 2002
by mg at 10:17 PM on April 19, 2002
If I believed in such things, Iíd 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 Iíd 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 didnít think I had a shot. But, seeing as my birthday is April 18th and all my family live in New York I said ďsureĒ 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 Iím all in love with. I mean, if I do get an offer, Iíll take it, because I job Iím unhappy with is better than no job at this point, and while neither job is exactly what Iíd like, I donít even think Iíd 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.
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.
Happy birthday to meÖ.
Happy birthday to meÖ.
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, Iím 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?? SoÖhappy birthday to me. Let's hope there will be many, many more....
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.
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 ďfuckĒ twice, thatís 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 canít possible be right. You know, I wouldnít 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 donít have a coffee machine), I didnít actually have to boil the water. It came right out of the tap with bubbles in it.
No, I guess it wasnít 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 isnít a 15-minute walk. It isnít 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 isnít 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, Iíd have to stick my hand up my ass just to stay cool. The end.
I went to play tennis today. Considering I havenít played in about 3 years, I wasnít so bad. I hope. The end.
In case it wasnít perfectly obvious from the above, tomorrow is my birthday. The end. Really.
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 thatís a bit melodramatic, but itís not necessarily inaccurate.
Whenever Iíve gone to a job fair, Iíve 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 donít think it needs to be me.
The biggest problems is that the companies I want to work for arenít at these soirees, because theyíre 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 couldnít stand. HmmmÖstrangely enough, that doesnít 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 canít necessarily wait for the ďperfectĒ job to come along. With that in mind, Iíve been working on my new mantra, which, Iím told, is guaranteed to enhance my job prospects:
ďWOULD YOU LIKE FRIES WITH THAT??Ē
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.
by mg at 04:16 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.
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 todayĖ 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:
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 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.
Compliments other people.
Thinks about more than boys.
Wants to be more than just friends.
Any takers? I'm accepting applications.
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.
We had a death in the family this weekend. It wasnít 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 wouldnít think that a television would have the potential to create so much family conflict, but itís 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 didnít think so. I think weíll settle this with dueling pistols at 20 paces.
Itís 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 bodyÖ.
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
what I am familiar with
I wake up
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!
I used to hang out
last on the
wild-eyed and skinny
(oh, to be skinny!)
always trying to
pick up girls.
all girls at arms length
is in no equations
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!
in the universe
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.
by mg at 04:21 PM on April 13, 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.
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 itís name, that isnít 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 Worldís 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 worldís 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 worldís 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.
by mg at 06:45 PM 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.
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!
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.
by mg at 03:44 PM on April 11, 2002
by mg at 12:19 PM on April 11, 2002
Iíve had no luck with my hosted sub domains.
Of the 8 people Iíve 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 donít 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.
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: "Ödead 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 Iím not about to, just in case anyone is wonderingÖ) and how some people can go off the deep end. Iím 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 didnít have to be like thisÖ.
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
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
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 Iím 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 canít speak for them) over the years. Because of this, Iíve seen my parents twice over the past 15 years. Theyíre not that old, really. Dad is 64 and Mom 61, but in the back of my mind, I know theyíre not going to be there forever.
The question for me, then, is whether or not to visit them while weíre 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 wonít. My mother refuses to discuss anything more controversial than the weather, and Dad wonít 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 wonít hurt anything for me to agree to see them. I did, after all, send them a Christmas gift last year, so they know Iím still out there.
I am their oldest son, and were I in their shoes, Iím 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 canít 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 donít 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 Iím going to do. Still, some impartial viewpoints might be helpful, and itís not very often I ask for advice. So, while said advice may not have a bearing on my final decision, it would be helpful nonethelessÖ.
by mg at 11:04 PM on April 08, 2002
I think Iíve mentioned before my guilty love of Seventh Heaven on the WB. If youíve never seen the show, picture the Brady Bunch with god and lots of really attractive teenagers. Iím 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 Iíve gotten turned onto it, Iíve managed to turn on a couple more people, who all hate themselves (and me) for loving it.
So, the episode tonight is a repeat from earlier in the season. It is the one where Matt, the oldest child (a mere 21), decides he wants to get married. He meets a girl and they spend the episode getting to know each other, and deciding whether they want to tie the knot.
Now, say what you will about the show, and about me as a person, but while most of you would probably be rolling your eyes throughout the entire hour, the only thing I could think was ďI want to be married.Ē
If youíd asked me a couple years ago whether Iíd be married by now, Iíd have said certainly so. Heck, if youíd asked me a couple weeks ago if Iíd be married right now, Iíd have still said certainly so. But things donít always work out the way we plan (and in this case, that might be for the best).
Still, I want to be married.
No fear of commitment here. And, considering that is usually the biggest roadblock for two young romantics, it seems as if I have it made. Except for one thing; if you are going to get married, you need to find someone to marry you, which is something Iíve been looking for longer than OJís been looking for the real killer.
Of course, I could always go the mail-order route. I hear those Russian brides are not only hot, but also obedient and loyal. But, here is the thing, I donít just want to be married, I want to be married to someone Iím in love with, or at the very least to someone I could be in love with. And, wanting to tear off the other personís clothes is sort of important, but, what Iím really looking for is a friend whoíll just happen to let me have sex with them. I donít think thatís a lot to ask. I know what I want, and all I need to do is find someone who wants the same thing.
Which might have you asking ďdid the date go well?Ē And Iíd honestly have to say it did; weíll be getting together again soon. ďBut did it go marrying well?Ē No, I guess it didnít. Not that I couldnít imagine marrying her, but, you know, I donít quite think its right to place my weird schism on this poor girl, especially on a first date. Maybe if things go well this weekend, and the weekend after, we can get into this whole ďI want to be married, now!Ē thing.
I just donít think its fair to place the unneeded stress on the beginnings of any relationship. Now, if she happens to bring it up, that is an entirely other story. One way or another, with one person or another, I will be married, and damn soon.
Iím a bachelor this weekend, and things sure feel different around here. Itís amazing how you never realize how much noise a teenager generates until said teenager is absent- not to mention my wife.
In the two-plus years weíve been together, Susan and I havenít spent all that much time apart. I suppose that is part of what makes it so weird when we are apart. Iím so used to having her here that it becomes hard to imagine being here by myself. Now all I have for company are three cats and a dog. Thatís right; Iíve become the Human Pet Door.
It felt strange going to bed last night. In the darkened (and WAY too quiet) house, every little noise sounded sinister. Iím not normally a jumpy person, but I could feel my paranoia level creeping up a bit before I finally drifted off to sleep.
The good thing about being here alone is I am now King of my Domain. I can watch all the hockey I want without having to listen to anyone ask if they can watch ďERĒ. (Come on; ďERĒ?? This is hockey seasonÖ.) Of course, the Domain isnít much. Itís basically a kingdom of one and my animal subjects, and they studiously ignore me unless they want out. Itís nice to know Iím needed for something.
I may clean the place up before Eric & Susan come back tomorrow, but then again I may not. Hey, itís my world, my rules, right?? Now, if youíll excuse me, the dog wants out- againÖ.
by mg at 05:34 PM on April 05, 2002
I told you about my last interview a couple weeks ago. I havenít heard back from them yet, but Iím still holding out hope.
The interviews have been so few and far between the last year that every one is special. And, actually, Iíve got an interview tonight that should be one of the most special.
ďAn interview on a Friday night,Ē you might ask. ďIsnít that a little strange?Ē
Well, I guess it would be strange if it were actually a job interview, instead of what it really is, a date. A first date. And, really, arenít first dates nothing more than an interview, but with food and alcohol, and the so very slight chance of sex at the end of the night?
To tell the truth, Iím not really sure that is what a date is like, since Iíve not really gone on that many dates. Here is the scenario about how most of my relationships have started: Me and a female of the species meet. We start hanging out in a friendly sort of way. We get really close. At some point, we start making out. Then we decide to start dating.
In my entire dating history, Iíve only asked two people out who I didnít know for certain would say yes. Both those girls said yes too, but it never seemed to work out with them. Otherwise, the woman has always asked me out or made that first move from ďfriendsĒ to ďhot monkey lovers.Ē
Itís not just that Iím shy (though that is a big part of it), but that I find it impossible for anyone to find my attractive. Okay, okay, that isnít true. Donít start yelling at me about self-confidence. I know I am a moderately attractive, intelligent, funny and nice guy.
The problem really is that I am shy. That combined with the fact that the women (and the occasional man) who are attracted to me are the aggressive types. I like that because it saves me from my mortal enemy, the fear of rejection. I could never be the type of guy who goes up to a woman in a bar or coffee shop (or mall) and start talking to them. I just donít have enough confidence in myself, and in my rap to think I could ever make that work.
So, I let people do it for me. And Iíve been pretty lucky that Iíve always found people who will throw themselves at me. Sure, the vast majority of those girls are cooks, but as often mentioned, crazy girls are hot.
Which brings us to tonight. Iíll (eventually) explain exactly how all this came about, but I the important thing is that I have a date, and through very little initiative on my part. Iíve never been on a real date before, so this will be a very good experience for me. Even though I havenít gotten a job recently, I have gotten very good at the interviews. And so my philosophy for tonight is that this is just an interview. Iíll be testing her, and she will be testing me. If, at the end of the night, we decide to have a second interview, thatíll be great. If not, well, Iíll have gotten my first real date out of the way; theyíll all come much easier after this, wont they?
I got to go to Traffic School last night. Oh, stop.... I know you're jealous. Just try and restrain yourselves.
I'm a bit older than I once was, so I don't tend to get tickets as often as I used to. But I still get one once in a while and, truth be told, they got me fair and square on this one. We can opt for Traffic School once a year here (that's pretty cool, isn't it?), in lieu of taking any points on our licenses, so that's what I did.
Traffic School is always an experience. I should know, this was my fourth or fifth time (not counting the time I had to accompany my sister to it before I was old enough to drive because my parents didn't want her driving around downtown at 10 PM by herself; though why they thought a 105 pound 13 year-old would keep her from being kidnapped is beyond me). The best Traffic School experience I've had was in California. The classes are contract out to private parties there and one of the options, at least in San Diego, is Comedy Club Traffic School. So - believe-it-or-don't - it is possible to spend all day in Traffic School and have a good time.
That isn't really the case in Kentucky. Ah, well; it's only 3 1/2 hours long. The guy we had last night was a retired cop and had his gab down pretty well. Thanks to his sense of humour - and his penchant for skipping the stuff he thought was silly - the time went by much less painfully than my last Traffic School experience. Nevertheless, next time my lawyer offers to get me off entirely, I'm going to take her up on it. I didn't want to take up her time when I had Traffic School as an option, but, well, I really don't feel like doing that again any time soon.
The only fly in the ointment was one I really should have expected. I don't know why, but there always seems to be one guy who insists upon debating the finer points of the law with the instructor (as if he can do anything about it). Last night it was a guy who wanted to go on and on about how seatbelt laws are an intrusion into our privacy. It's not that I am not sympathetic to that argument (actually I am - I always wear mine, but I don't think they should give tickets to adults for not wearing seatbelts). It's just that there are appropriate times and places for climbing on a soapbox. 9:15 PM in a Traffic School class full of people who have to be at work in the morning and still haven't had dinner is most definitely not one of them.
I am glad to report that Traffic School isn't a total waste of time. It doesn't hurt to have a refresher in some of the basic rules every so often. I (like most people) think I'm a better driver than most of the morons who try to kill me every day on 264. But I am also a pretty aggressive driver, so, whether I am actually being unsafe or not, there's no doubt somebody in another car says nasty things about me at some point almost every day. I could do worse than to remember that the next time I'm screaming at some twit who's just cut me off or won't get out of my way in the fast lane.
Who knows? Having been to Traffic School last night, I might not scream and yell and chase anybody for a at least a few days. But even if I do, there's one other thing about driving that changes as I get a bit older and (at least a little bit) more mature, whether I go to Traffic School or not: I no longer feel compelled to chase people past my exit.
April 5th, 2002 was just like any other day in the small coastal city of Santa Maria, a city located somewhere between hustle of Los Angeles and the bustle of San Francisco. April 5th, 2002 was just like any other day in the tree hugging, free loving, environmentally safe city of Eugene, Oregon. April 5th, 2002 was just like any other day in the beautiful, crime free, clean city of Detroit, Michigan. In fact, April 5th 2002 was just like any other day in most every place in the world. But little did the ignorant populace of the planet Earth know how things would change when they awoke the next morning, and saw this headline in their daily paper:
In addition to the cryptic headline, the date of our destruction is given: March 16, 2880. Now pause a moment and take that in............got it? We're all going to die! Every one of us! Run! Run! For the love of God, RRRRRUUUUUUNNNN!.
It's official; I'm going to spend the rest of my life counting down the days 'til my death. Thank you very much NASA! And it doesn't matter whether I live to be 35, 45, or 895-- I'm going to be walking around carrying the burden of knowing I'm going to die a horrible, fiery death within the next millenium. When I'm a spry 895 years old in the year 2880, and I wake up on March 16th (St. Patrick's Day) expecting to get loaded as all good Irish descendants do, just imagine my disappointment as I realize the human race is about to go the way of the Dodo. I can see my reaction now:
"Hmmm, I think today is going to be a bit unpleasant."
Oh how I fear my Day of Reckoning.
It's Spring now, when a young man's fancy begins to alight on members of the fairer sex.
Because you know, we're gay all winter.
Sometimes I like to imagine I can hear you all blinking.
ANYWAY, it's Springtime, and it's time to get some of the fucking. True, here in the midwest we're still getting the occasional snowstorm, but beneath that frigid turf, the ground is beginning to warm, worms are beginning to wiggle, and pretty soon their slimy little heads will be poking hopefully up out of the soil.
Then they'll get washed out of their holes during rainstorms and dessicate on the pavement.
ANYWAY, girls. I've been trying to find them at bars, without a great deal of success. But I also know that you can get them at the same place you can get most things: the mall. I think it's just force of habit, actually. When we were 12 and 13, we'd get our parents to drop us off at the mall for a few hours so we could cruise chicks. I'm still going there, still trying to meet girls. Unfortunately, the girls' ages haven't changed, but I don't always realize that right away. From a distance, all you see is the makeup and the clothes, and you start to think "Aah." Get a little closer, though, and you kinda go "eek," because, though you had no such intention, you've just discovered that you're a pedophile.
The other major category of girls at the mall work in the various stores. This is also a touchy group. Sure they're nice, but they're paid to be nice. Unfortunately, they aren't paid enough to be that nice, even if you get them into your dressing room and offer them an additional $20 an hour. My experiences with this approach have been so uniformly negative that I really can't recommend it to you.
When you spend enough time at the mall, you start to recognize people. They're not usually girls, though. There's a guy I went to high school with, selling cell phones, gotta hide my face for that one. And there's another guy I went to high school with, working security, avert the eyes, avert the eyes. Why are these guys still hanging around here? Jeez.
ANYWAY, girls. There is one girl I see almost every time I'm there, and I have to admire her. She wears all black. She wears some ultra pale foundation and thick black mascara and black lipstick. Her hair is black. Hold that thought: this girl has no legs and one arm, so she's got something to be goth about, if you ask me. She's got a motorized wheelchair, and she does laps around the mall at what has to be that sucker's top speed. People are always flinging themselves out of her way. It's great. I could get interested in a girl with an attitude like that, but what could she possibly see in me, in my grey sweaters, grey trousers, black shoes, in my Belle and Sebastian, my White Stripes, my Neko Case? Clearly, it's hopeless.
Also, beneath the Cure getup, she's just as preteen as all the other girls there.
ANYWAY, I guess it's back to the bar for me. Things don't seem to work out with the girls there either, but at least they serve alcohol. Stupid mall.
by mg at 12:29 PM on April 04, 2002
Though it is in my nature to do that sort of thing, Iím not going to write a long winded introduction to this new (monthly?) feature. See, I joked about becoming a new man, and with this new short-windedness, Iím at least .07% there.
At any rate, I repeat again, Horrorscopes: Astrology for the criminally Insane. Now get to it.
Aries (Mar. 21st-Apr. 20th)
Wouldnít you know it, the industrial freezer you use to store your victims bodies breaks down just a few weeks after the warranty expires. The salesman told you to spring for the extended warranty but did you listen?
Taurus (Apr. 21st-May 20th)
Drowning your five children seemed like the perfect way to solve all of lifeís problems. But donít worry, youíll have plenty of time to figure out what went wrong with your plan while getting raped by your butch lesbian cellmate every night for the rest of your life.
Gemini (May 21st-June 21st)
Getting your instructions from your neighbors barking German shepherd is one thing. Getting your instructions from your sister's hamster is quite another.
Cancer (June 22nd-July 22nd)
Liver with fava beans and a nice chianti is so passť. The stars suggest you serve spleen with some wild rice and a nice chardonnay.
Leo (July 23rd-Aug. 22nd)
After sending your local newspaper 57 letters to editor, you begin to get the distinct impression they are ignoring you. But, if you kidnap the editor in chief's daughter and cut up some old magazines, the stars are sure you'll get his attention.
Virgo (Aug. 23rd-Sept. 22nd)
Sure, you may be a little strapped for cash this week, but don't let that stop you. Remember, if you strangle the prostitute after you pick her up, you don't actually have to pay her.
Libra (Sept. 23rd-Oct. 23rd)
The voices in your head are real, but Batman isn't. Stop making Batman's appearance one of your demands, because the police just think your crazy.
Scorpio (Oct. 24th-Nov. 22nd)
As much as you might hate it, the press will continue to call you the Grossly Overweight and Slightly Balding Strangler. Perhaps you should take that as a sign you should hit the gym instead of young boys in the face with bricks.
Sagitarious (Nov. 23rd-Dec. 21st)
Finally sick of people confusing you with cast members from Married with Children, you will seduce and kill 28 more sorority sisters to restore the good olí Bundy name.
Carpricorn (Dec. 22nd-Jan. 20th)
The children of Camp Crystal Lake fail to be frightened when the California Magic and Novelty Company screws up your order and sends you a Richard Nixon mask instead of that one from Scream.
Aquarious (Jan. 21st-Feb. 18th)
When you are chosen as an extra in the movie adaptation to the sequel of your life, you begin to question whether hiring the public defender that got you 19 consecutive life sentences was the right choice for a talent agent. That you are getting paid in cigarettes doesnít bode well either.
Pisces (Feb. 19th-Mar. 20th)
When the police arrive at your apartment they wont, for some strange reason, believe it when you tell them ďNothing is behind that doorĒ while laughing manically.
I've heard the jokes shooting around for the last week as Israel and Palestine got down and dirty. Most center on the theme that this little dry ass spot of desert everyone is in such a quandary over is actually the birthplace of several major religions. All of which preach "peace." Ha, ha, that's a good one, God.
Even if they can't agree on borders, there's one thing that all religions can agree on, whether Christian, Buddist, Muslim, or Jedi, is that money rules. So here's how to fix the Middle East. Give the entire area a make-over ALA central Florida and build the RELIGION WORLD THEME PARK. Each major religion with a tie to the area gets a cut. All the major important spots are protected by becoming instant tourist traps. Kids can by "Ramallah Rocks" shirts in the gift shop. And everyone's happy. Imagine the attractions....
The area is screaming out for water slides and flume rides. How about a section near Hebron called HOLY WATER WORLD?
The West Bank is crying out for a makeover like WEST WORLD. No one can turn down anamtronic Yul Brynner robots, especially if they're in turbans.
While the area is admittedly a few miles to the Red Sea, followers of Muhammad will thrill to the twist and turns of the MECCA COSTER.
For Christians, it's Xmas year round in Bethlehem's barn-busting spectacular: THREE KINGS STAGE SHOW, featuring Donny Osmond, there on special release from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints... our home-grown American' religions don't want to be left out of making some bucks.
Except for the Scientologists. Those crazy bastards already have too much money because of Cruise and Travolta. Though I bet they'd build a helluva space simulation ride.
Life always looks better on Opening Day, and it certainly did yesterday. For the first time ever, I had tickets to Opening Day. Susan and I went to see the Astros play the Brewers (my brother Markís team) at the baseball cathedral that is ďYour Name HereĒ Field. For three hours, (almost) everything was perfect. The foul lines were as straight as Jerry Falwell, the grass as green as what heaven surely looks like. OK, so the Astros got their butts handed to them 9-3. There wasnít much drama, not after Milwaukee scored three runs in the top of the first inning, but it was still fun. Richie Sexson hit a home run that left the stadium and landed on Crawford Street. At least I think it landedÖ.
Opening Day is always a sign of hope, that things are still right with the world. Even the Expos are still in contention- not that theyíll be able to say that much longer. There is something renewing and refreshing about sitting in the stands watching and talking about a game I worshipped as a young boy. The beginning of each season is sort of like the first day of school, only without the bitchy teacher. Everything looks promising, the popcorn tastes better, and even the nachos look good (and you know that canít last).
For three hours, I could forget about being unemployed, forget about money problems, forget about everything, really, and just enjoy the certainty and beauty of the game, and the smells of the ballpark. Can it get any better?
OK, so the Astros wonít go undefeated. The good news is that the Twins won their opener, hitting three home runs in the top of the first to beat Kansas City 8-6. Hope still springs eternal. Now, if we could just figure out what the heck happened to Wade Miller yesterdayÖ.
by mg at 06:29 PM on April 02, 2002
I am a Golden God!
In case you didn't notice, the design of stuff down there has already changed a couple times in Bad Samaritan:Elemental's brief history. My intention was to combine all the four blogs together and then display the posts in chronological order here.
I came back to the problem at some point everyday for the past couple weeks, but could never make it work. I even asked the Moveablte Type support board, who were, this time, less than helpful.
Today I finally had a bit of an epiphany. My code is probably messy as hell, and would make a true hax0r type spit Mountain Dew all over their terminal, but it works. So there.
by mg at 11:41 AM on April 02, 2002
Maybe Michael Moore and Noam Chomsky were right.
The people of Palestine are blowing up buses to defend their homeland and to protect their culture.
The people of College Park Maryland turned over cars because their basketball team won a game.
The people of Palestine start fires to preserve their freedom.
The people of College Park Maryland started bonfires because their basketball team won a game.
The people of Palestine throw rocks at police who are shooting at them.
The people of College Park Maryland threw rocks at police because their basketball team won a game.
On a day like today, it isnít that hard to understand why the rest of the world might hate the United States.
Did you ever wonder what the hell that thumping noise is that your neighbor makes at that ungodly hour when you are actually trying to sleep? No, not the happy humping rhythm, but the staccato chop, chop, chopping sound, followed by the dragging sound. Then the shower gets turned on, full blast. I don't know about you, but from all I've 'heard' the best way to get rid of someone (mostly hookers) is to take care of business in the bathtub. You know, bleed 'em out, chop them into pieces, and bleach the whole mess. Gets rid of sloppy evide... oh, back to topic. Right! So, on to the next possible suspect.
That guy from the butcher shop. You know, that seedy looking guy who's really good with a knife. Beady little eyes, funny accent. Wheels a cart full of 'meat' down my block every morning to the restaurants (OR BODY DUMPING GROUNDS) on the avenue. He really knows his chuck steak though. And he's good with a meat grinder. Mmmm. Ground Chuck. Poor Chuck. Tasty Chuck.
Ever see someone with a black laundry bag that seems to be struggling a little too much under the weight of his 'laundry'? Is it pooling a bit of liquid at the bottom? Can you tell what color the liquid is? OF COURSE YOU CAN'T, THAT'S WHY IT'S A BLACK LAUNDRY BAG! IT'S FULL OF BODY PARTS! Now you can accurately identify the axe murderers in your neighborhood. Invite them over, and remember to wear your blue knit sweater, and toss your shoe from one hand to the next before you turn your back on them.
I have no idea why I wrote this, and I really hope Mel Gibson isn't dead, because that's what someone told me last night in my dream. It would really be a shame for him to not make Braveheart 2.
Well, the 2002 Major League Baseball season has officially opened. Just in time for another exciting year of labour disputes, three hour games, and Atlanta choking come October. But today I bring before you an invition, an invitation to join the most exclusive of clubs this side of the KKK and NRA. An invitation to join the official Bad Sam fantasy baseball league.
Now, some of you are probably thinking, "Oh shucks. I don't know Lou Whitaker about baseball. It's not for me."
But you, my ignorant friend, are wrong. It doesn't matter if you come from the deepest darkest depths of Hell, or Europe, and haven't heard of this thing called "baseball"; you can still join. You'll lose pathetically and we'll all laugh at you, but you can still join. It's open to Bad Sam members, readers, and random passerbys alike.
The league is a standard head-to-head system with a 5x5 scoring scheme held on Yahoo!. There are a maximum of 14 teams and 25 players per team, with the draft being held on Saturday, April 6 at 1:45 ET. The time can be changed if necessary (read: if no one joins up in the next few days).
Those who have an idea of what the hell I'm talking about can go here and begin the process of signing up. The league number is 185160 and the password is 1. The slightly less intelligent readers, or those just wishing to read more, can read on for detailed instructions told in a demeaning manner.
Directions for Joining the Bad Sam Fantasy Baseball League:
1. Sign up for a Yahoo! account by clicking on the "Sign me up" link here. Yahoo! is a little know startup company, and if you can't figure out how to create an account you can't join. You probably can't tie your own shoes, either.
2. Return here Click the "Sign up now!" grey bar. Click on the "Join Private League" option. Type 185160 for the league number, and 1 for the password. Still with me? Should I slow down?
3. Enter your desired team name. If you want to be called "Hi Mom!", then enter "Hi Mom!" for your team name. Do not enter your address, do not enter your credit card numbers, do not enter your full name; unless you want those to be your team name.
4. Complete the remainder of the form. Most primates are capable of doing it, so you shouldn't have that much trouble. Click "continue" at the bottom, and "Create my team" on the next page". Then pat yourself on the back; you've successfully joined the Bad Sam league.
So come join! You'll look cool! All your friends are doing it. You don't want to be the funny looking kid left out, do you?
by mg at 10:15 PM on April 01, 2002
Pretend this is Monday Night Football. Here is a scenario, now you be the judge:
Say you were returning from a trip, and your boyfriend showed up at the airport with flowers, thatíd be a good thing, right?
Now, lets say when he meets you at the gate, he acts as if he didnít know you. He says he is waiting for the love of his life, but, it turns out she isnít on that flight after all. A little creepy, maybe?
But then what if he started chatting you up, as if he didnít know you, but wanted to. He walked with you as you went to pick up your baggage. Asked if you wouldnít mind sharing a cab with him. Does that swing back around to sweet again?
Now, he rides with you in the cab back to your apartment, he gets out and helps you with your bags. When he leaves you at the door, he hands you the flowers, and asks if he could have your number so you could get together for coffee some time. Add that your true love was on that flight after all.
Is or is that not the most romantic thing youíve ever heard?
by mg at 07:39 PM on April 01, 2002
by mg at 06:30 PM on April 01, 2002
I am the April fool.
Actually, that isnít true.
Short of being born in April (there is still time to send me gifts), Iíve never been any more favorable to this month than any of the 12 others. Sure, back in second grade I had this huge crush on February, but then she moved away, I never saw her again and no other month has been able to turn my head since.
As for todayís very special holiday, believe it or not, I have never pulled an April Fools joke. Never. No ďYouíve got something on your shirt.Ē No tying someoneís shoelaces together and then watching them fall down a flight of stairs. No kidnapping local schoolchildren only to returning them safely to their parents at 12:01 on April 2nd (or whenever they get around to meeting my demands). Iíve never even put a fly in an ice cube.
I mean, is anyone ever fooled by an April Fools trick? How gullible do you have to be? Are you gullible enough to look up the word gullible at Dictionary.com because someone told you it wasnít included in their database? To believe Britney Spears is still a virgin? To still pay money to watch Kevin Costner movies?
Iíve ever pulled a April Fools joke, I want to do it right. But none of the April 1st jokes Iíve seen have been about fooling anyone. April Fools jokes come in one of two varieties. First, there is the ďIíve got your noseĒ sort of good-natured ribbing. Everyone is on the joke and no one is fooled. Iím not the kind of guy to walk around ruffling the hair of young lads and calling them ďchief.Ē Maybe when I get to be an Uncle, Iíll start pulling quarters from behind peopleís ears, but I you couldnít catch me dead doing something like that now.
The second variety is for those ďwhackyĒ morning DJ types whoíll call up a mother to let her know one of her children was just killed. These arenít so much attempts to fool as to terrify. Sure, there is that brief moment of elation when they think, ďOh my god, little Jimmy is still alive!Ē But then you get pissed off. I donít like having people pissed off at me. Weíve all got enough problems in our life, I donít want to add to anyoneís misery.
I mean, I donít eat chicken because Iím worried about hurting their feelings, Iím not about to scare some unsuspecting friend into peeing their pants. I save that kind of thing for dates.
So, there you have it, the reason me, Michael, and the site, Bad Samaritan, will never participate in any kind of practical jokerage. Sure, Iíll still outright lie, but not for the purpose of amusement, only to further my nefarious plans. Muwahaha!
by mg at 12:18 PM on April 01, 2002
It has been about a week since the relaunch of Bad Samaritan, things are going well. Except for two simple facts:
1) It seems as if people donít quite understand how this portal page works. This, right here, what you are reading now, is just the spot for general site news. The real content is down just a little but further. Just like in real life, the stuff up here is boring, the stuff down there is where all the fun takes place. Just wanted to make that clear.
2) When I made the change to Movable Type I didnít think about all the other stupid pages Iíd need to change. All the various features need new templates and then I need to change all the links to the new files. All the author pages need to be updated. It is taking longer than I thought, basically because I donít care anymore. Still, everything will eventually get done. Keep your shoes on.
Like I said, boring stuff up here. Go down, now.