King Tut had it better than me

Nothing like the sound of rustling Hefti bags as someone angrily packs up their stuff in another room at 1:00 am, while you’re sitting in the living room watching a National Geographic special about Tutankhamen’s mummy.

Can you relate?

While I’m now educated in how advanced we’ve gotten in spectral forensic imaging, I’m convinced I’ll never be educated in the psyche of women and just how fucked in the head they really are. I think I’ll take the mummy knowledge at this point, because no matter how nice and pleasing and cool it is to be in relationship, they inevitable crumble because it’s simply impossible (for me anyway) to put up with, argue against, or make sense of the irrationality that is the female mind.

Am I breaking new ground here? No, I don’t think so. Women have been pains in mens' asses since the days of blogging on cave walls. But I guess it’s just my colossal thick-headedness to keep hoping that there is a girl out there who thinks reasonably. I mean, let’s even take someone like Condeleza Rice. Whatever you think about her ability as Sec’y of State, do you think she gets mad at her significant other because he has newspaper ink on his fingers for a period of time longer that 10 seconds? I wonder if she has a hissy-fit if three fluid ounces of water escapes from the dog’s bowl on to the kitchen floor while he is drinking. The poor bastard got his balls chopped off (not at my doing, btw) when he was ten days old – how about letting him drink however he wants, for chrissakes.

I don’t know, maybe it’s me. I try to be as tolerant as I can. I know girls are sensitive if you try to instruct them how to do things, so I try not to do it. I know they like romantic stuff, so I write the occasional love letter or poem – and not just because they like it, but because that type of thing is fun for me too. No matter how nice a relationship is in the first few weeks, chinks in the armour (refrain from Asian jokes, please) inevitable appear. I refuse to be a sap, I’m sorry. I’ll try to modify my behaviour to make for harmony – but only to a point. Is it a menstrual thing? I'm sorry that's a bullshit excuse already. Are you telling my choices here are to either go out with post-menopausal women exclusively or become a chronic masturbator. I know first (ahem) hand that choice 2 sucks and I'm pretty sure hot flashes ain't no picnic neither.

So now I sit here, almost a year to the day when I sat through another late night bag-rustling event (appropriately enough I was watching V for Vendetta on that occasion), and the cliché about men and women not being able to get along is further confirmed. This latest one coming on the day we exchanged Christmas gifts. I’d feel too guilty about connecting this stupid Sony Blu-Ray player now. I guess it doesn’t matter because my TV isn’t 1080p anyway.

And in case you were interested, according to the latest forensic data, King Tut was probably not murdered after all. Evidence suggests he killed himself because his girlfriend was a royal pain in the ass.

U date

Not in a taxicab this time, boys, but the back of a U-Haul truck?!?

Let me start from the beginning. Today I got a call that everyone on fucking Earth dreads – “Can you help me move?”

It’s a rainy Saturday and work has been a bitch for me the last couple of weeks. Do I really feel like making a three-borough, nine hour slosh around town in the metallic innards of a windowless U-Haul? No, I don’t. I want to sit on my couch and watch college football games with teams I couldn’t give two shits about.

Alas, I’ll be participating in such momentous events as tape-gunning, sofa stairwell pivoting, and the giant oak headboard long toss. Just to make it more enticing, I'll have to start my day with a 7 train LOCAL to the very last stop in Flushing (plus a bus). Fuckin’ A.

I get to the move site and crazy (i'll call her) Zelda is the first to greet me. Like me, she's just a helper and is friends with the people moving. As is my wont, I’ll try to be as succinct as possible in describing Zelda, but I’ll take the liberty be as thorough as I feel is warranted. Now that I’ve explained how I’ll explain her, behold:

She’s this little sparkplug of a thing who wears librarian glasses, but likes to scream in the street for no reason and sometimes uses a playful judo kick as a substitute for a hug. She also likes to hug.

I learned today that she came here when she was 9 or 10 years old from Taiwan, even though I always thought she was A.B.C.* (American Born Chinese) *Editor’s Note: The author of this piece likes Asian girls, pretty much exclusively. **Author’s Note: Shut the fuck up, Editor, I’m in the middle of a story.

Anyway, this Zelda, is a championship caliber tennis player, her mother died when she was a baby, and she likes to end statements or questions with a very ghetto-chic “Yo.” For example, she’ll say something like, “I can slap a forehand winner past your lame ass anytime I want, Yo!”

She’s also very cute - but not in the typical Pan-Asian, no-hipped, skinny-armed, high and wide-cheekboned kind of way. She has curves and muscles…and these little elfin ears that stick out at an adorable 45 degree angle. It’s me and her and bunch of furniture in the pitch black cargo hold of a U-haul, headed south on the Van Wyck.

Zelda and I went on a quasi double date a while ago with the two people who are sitting upfront, in the human area of the truck. I say quasi because I was the only one who thought it was a date. Whatever. No biggie. I’ve seen her a few times since, and we’re always friendly. So we’re back there and we start bouncing into each other as the road gets bumpier. There’s barely room for the both of us, as we’re almost fully encased in wood and boxsprings.

“I’m gonna kiss you, Zelda,” I warn.

I move in. She swivels her head like she's fuckin' Linda Blair and gives me all cheek.

“What the hell is that, Yo?” she screams, more surprised than pissed, slowly turning her face back towards me, making sure it's safe.
“C’mon.” (One of those familiar Zipper 'C'mon's)
“C’mon, what?”
“We’re practically in each others arms, we’re involuntarily grinding each other, (which fyi has the same effect as voluntarily grinding), nobody can see us, it’s raining, and we’re in a freakin' U-haul.”
“So?”
“So it’s romantic,” I shrug. “And when they asked, it seemed like you were eager to be back here with me.”
“I thought it would be fun,” she purrs while play-slapping me.
“Yeah…so did I.”

She registers the sarcasm.

“Shut up. It will be fun.”
“Says you, yo,” I smirk.

We spend the next half hour bouncing around, talking, laughing and not making out. She was right, it was fun. I know, not a very exciting climax to the story, but a peek inside the zany shit that happens to me. I know I mention that show Californication from time to time, but I will again. There was a line a few weeks ago in there something to the effect that we all live in our own little romantic-comedic worlds. This was totally one of those moments for me.

Incidentally, almost all romantic comedies have the same exact formula: Act I - Boy meets girl, Act II - Boy loses girl, Act III - Boy gets girl. Act III in real life is hard sometimes.

**********

On a totally different vibe, I had the opportunity to spend a few minutes with an Auschwitz survivor today. It was a neighbor of the guy who was moving.

I'm a little bit of history guy, so hearing some of her stories was more interesting than anything Ken Burns or PBS can come up with. She was Hungarian and was shocked when I recognized her accent. (I pride myself on my accent recognition). At one point in 1944 I think, she pretended to be Romanian so she could get a lift from Poland to Budapest for her and her brother from some Romanian soldiers in a caravan. She didn't verbalize it, but implied to me that the soldiers didn't want money from her, but at the same time, the ride was not free.

One thing that struck me as odd was how eager she was to show me her tattoo, once she found out I that was Jewish. There was something so ominous and powerful about those faded green numbers on her papery-skinned wrist. I was a little taken aback by the weird pride she had about it. I don't know, just freaked me out I guess. I had never seen one of those before in real life. I realized a few minutes later that I also haven't seen 1% of the shit that this poor woman has seen in her life.

Planet Californication

There is so much shit on TV, that when a quality show comes on, I must try to do what I can to make people watch it. Geico Cavemen, Charlie Sheen, and Dancing with the Stars not withstanding, there hasn’t been anything really on since Six Feet Under was voluntarily buried by Alan Ball two years ago.

I mentioned the Showtime show Californication in this space very early on it the lifecycle of this blog. Not only does the show get better each and every week (with the exception of the episode when all the characters attend a fundraiser, but we’ll give them a mulligan for that one), but the main character becomes more and more like me with each show.

Hank, the main character, a New York writer, has moved to LA after they turned his novel into a movie. Very reluctantly, he takes a job writing a blog. (Editor's note: I started this blog the night before this show aired it's premiere episode, which is just plain kooky). Anyway, he is in bed MEREDITH, a women who he’s on the precipice of getting serious with (which is also with a degree of reluctance).

As they are about to have morning sex, Hank says something funny. She responds with an ‘LOL’:

HANK
What’d you just say? Just now? LOL? Laugh out Loud?
MEREDITH: Yeah, so?
HANK
Is that part of your lexicon? Really? LOL?
MEREDITH: Shouldn’t that be part of yours too? You are writing in Cyberspace now.
HANK
There’s goes my boner. Wave bye bye.
MEREDITH:
What is your issue with L.O.L?
HANK
I don’t have an issue with it unless you count the fact that every time you say it, you’re contributing to death of the English language.
MEREDITH:
So let me get this straight. You’re gonna let the fact that I said LOL get in the way of me giving you the best B.J. of your life?
HANK
Not when you put it that way.

She goes down on him. He smiles in a contrite way.

HANK
I’m not the biggest fan of the team B.J. either.

Let me switch gears for a second and quote myself. I wrote the following when I introduced myself to you and the blogging community. It was in the first entry called “Opening Salvo”, when I actually thought I’d get feedback:

“I won't make rule about it, but let's keep the :)'s and the LOL's, etc, to an absolute minimum. I realize the smiley face is necessary because of its statement softening properties and the LOL really lets everyone know you think something is funny, but do me a favor and save that shit for your IM's to Krissy47."

What’s my point you ask? In quoting myself or paralleling these two things. Not much really. None other than this is my colossal right as blog owner and sole contributor. I guess I’m trying to say that a TV show is easier to like when you identify with the character. This show is just more than that, however. It’s conflict-ridden, smart and funny and Duchovney allows us to feel his character’s vulnerability, even though he’s a gruff, confrontational, man whore. But he’s witty and clever too. This is what makes a good character. Not gimmicks and stupid situations and all the other contrived shit that TV throws at the wall and ultimately on to our screens. It's the characters, stupid. Genuine, smart, vulnerable and ultimately likeable. It’s all on display when he confronts the director of the shitty movie on which his book is based – played by Krazy-Eyez Killah himself, Chris Williams. (opening scene of episode 3)

And just another ridiculous piece of information, straight from Planet Karma: Hank gets a piece of mail from his quasi-estranged father in a great flashback episode. The return address is Levittown, New York. The author of this blog’s address was Levittown, New York for the first 18 years of his life.

I'm the winner

Faithful readers…sorry I’ve been lazy about the blog, but I’ve been traveling for what seems like forever. Sort of a lame excuse because traveling is fairly conducive to writing, but I haven’t, so again my apologies. I’m now on a ten hour flight home, which is entirely too long already.

I watched Spider Man 3 and Fantastic 4, Part 2, which if you add it all together, is 9 cinematic units of crapola. Enough with the super hero movies already. Recently, they all suck (except the first 90 minutes of Batman Begins). These two shit pieces did kill four hours, but now there are fucking six hours left. Six hours. That’s almost like a full day of work. Actually, this isn’t too dissimilar than a day of work for me. I’m sitting in a leather-type chair, punching a keyboard, occasionally eating and going to the john - all of which I do when I’m in the office. I probably shouldn’t complain because I’m in business class, which makes this hell slightly more bearable.

The best part about being in business class however isn’t the movie choices, or the slightly more edible and frequent foodie, or even the legroom. It’s the ability to see all those dopes in the crowded check-in counters or taking their shoes off at the x-ray machine, on my way to the luxurious lounge, repeating the same word in my head…”suckers.” Yes, in this scenario, I am a winner…a privileged and prized member of society, to be pampered with free drinks and celery and carrot sticks and coffee and croissants…as much as I want. I had a four-hour layover in Athens and enjoyed every second of it. Everyone not in that lounge is a loser. I’m the winner – of course until the next time I’m traveling on my own dime. Then I’m back to my usual perch, taking off my stinky-ass sneakers with the rest of them.

*************

My Ipod really has a sense of humor. I always keep it on Shuffle and as soon as the Captain said it was safe to activate approved electronic devices, The End by the Doors came on.

*************

Where did I go you ask? I went to Zurich for work and then Mykonos for pleasure. For those who have not been, I strongly suggest going to the Greek Islands. Everything was expensive, especially since the U.S. Dollar has officially changed its name to the U.S. Charmin or worse yet, the Canadian Dollar. They haven’t decided which, but either Mr. Whipple or Maurice “Rocket” Richard will be on the new bills.

I digress. Mykonos was absolutely (insert travel book words here) stunning, breathtaking, charming, gorgeous (did I miss any). Picture these gleaming white, sugar cube buildings, embedded in the mountains which overlook turquoise waters that would give Mexico or the Caribbean a run for their money. The narrow streets of the main town contained expensive shops, bars, souvenir stores and Gyro places, but the feeling wasn’t one of overwhelming commercialism/hard sell, like in Rome, where there is a used car salesman outside every restaurant begging you to come in. I rented a motor scooter to get around and only had three or four life-threatening episodes, but it was worth it - because on a nice straight away, when I could momentarily take my eyes off the road - I saw some of the most spectacular scenery in my humble travelogue. On my walk from hotel to beach, donkeys and roosters were on hand and if you’re a cat person, you’re in luck. One afternoon, I came into my room and a nice tabby was lying on my bed. They’re kind of all over the place, but not in an overwhelming way. Oh and by the way, the beaches are crawling with beautiful/naked girls. There also was a little bit of a Greco-Roman GayBoy sprinkling, but hey, I’m cool with it and it’s less competition for us straightsmen.

If the dollar makes a comeback, consider going there. Unfortunately, out of the three people that read this, none will take this advice as one of you was there with me and the other two never leave the country.

The only blight, and this was completely my fault, was Saturday night. It was marked by one of the most violent (appetite spoiler alert) and projectile vomit episodes for me in recent memory. We were drinking shot after shot after shot after Corona. I don’t remember much after dancing with a fraudulent transvestite, but when I woke up I had those always-tasty and ever chewy ralph remnants stuck in my teeth and my bathroom looked and smelled like a CSI crime scene. A batallion of 5,000 ants were munching away on partially digested Greek salad and mousakka (meat/cheese pie). Sounds lovely, n’est pas? Thank god I had a waterpik showerhead and was able to wash away the whole stinking, swarming mess before the stench made me puke again. Geeez, I haven’t puked like that since college, but at least I felt okay the next morning, except for this lump in between my stomach and throat that is still there - two days later.

Notice how I said nothing about Zurich. That’s because there’s not much there. My puking episode was more noteworthy. It’s a Central European financial center with all the charm of a hunk of Jarlsbourg. Just like Frankfurt and just like Milan. Maybe I need to explore a little more next time I’m there, which will be in a few weeks (for those of you keeping track).

*************

Speaking of charm, we just past Godtharb, Greenland. Super. I wonder what the hell goes on in Godtharb, Greenland. They a named town, so some poor bastards must live there, right? I’ll check and let you know…or I’ll put a link here. I remember they sent Richie Cunningham to Greenland when they wrote him off Happy Days.

I guess they didn’t want to kill him off completely, so they did the closest thing. Ron Howard must have pissed somebody off pretty badly - but at least we finally got to meet Jenny Piccillo, who was a bit of a disappointment to me.

*************

Some week I missed on the New York Sports scene. What a joke the Mets are. I heard there was brawl on Saturday. That’s a good way to wake up a team who is out of the race. So then I’m watching the game on CBSSportline on Sunday and the Marlins are winning 7-0 in the first inning. Mets eliminated. Nice job Glavine. You started and ended your Met career in the same way (his first game as a Met, they lost 13-4)…disastrously. What a bunch of chokers. Losing 6 out of 7 at home to end the season to shitty teams. Only a team that I root for could do such a thing. The number of championships for my teams in my 35 years of sports fan-dom stands at TWO…Mets is ’86 and Rangers in ’94. What’s the fucking point?

And the Jets…hmmmm. I was also watching that on my computer in Mykonos (It was 8 pm my time on Sunday, so it wasn’t like I spent the day watching my teams on the computer). Losing to a team that was last in offense and defense and ravaged by injuries. I guess it’s always hard to win a divisional game on the road, but c’mon. Pennington’s numbers looked fine, but the dink and dunk bullshit is not risk/reward friendly enough and it doesn’t make it easy to run the ball by stretching the defense. Throw it deep once in a while just to show the other team you can. So what if it’s incomplete or picked. As much as I like him as an achiever and a person, his limitations are just too much for an NFL offense to handle.

My main fantasy team will be 0-4 unless Carson Palmer goes off the nut tonight…So The Mets, Jets and my fantasy team’s seasons all ended in the space of several hours…at least we’re closing in on Nova Scotia. Killed a couple of hours writing this and now there’s another meal coming for us. I think I will have whipped cream on my sundae this time. Suck that up, suckers in the back.

hodge podge of frivolity

I've written about nine different opening paragraphs tonight, but nothing I thought would pass muster with you, my dear, single-digit number of an audience.

I threw down some shit about the end of summer (who cares, we know, it went by fast). I thought writing about this girl I'm seeing, and her irreprebably bad breath, might be funny. It would be, but I would feel terrible. Then I copied and pasted a list of the entries on my bank statement and thought it could be entertaining. It wasn't.

So here I am at 1:15 AM on a Sunday night, armed with not a lot. I could launch myself into a stream of consciousness festival, but it's way too early in the evolution of this blog to reach down into the bottom of that barrel.

Well, if the substance suffers this week, at least the style will not. I got some really nice tips from an expert blogger today. As you can see, it was really helpful. I don't have those random, dorky pictures on the right side anymore and I got rid of that amateur-ish format. She was so gracious about teaching me and it seemed like she was genuinely happy to welcome a new person into the blogging fraternity. I also learned that anyone who doesn't try to communicate to an audience and/or make a few bucks via the internet, is either lazy or stupid. Now if I could just get the number of readers into the ranks of double digits.

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Pedro prediction: 4 1/3 innings, 3 Earned Runs, 5 hits, 2 walks, 4 strikeouts, 82 pitches.





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I think I actually will touch on this girl with the halitosis.

She's very sweet (in most senses of the word), she seems to like me, and we have a good time together. But is it a good thing to dread having to kiss someone three weeks into a relationship? It's like her tongue is coated in this glazey film of lemon juice and garlic powder. It's unbearable. Kissing and gagging at the same time is never good.

I mean, I know I have plenty of peccadillos, but what the hell am I supposed to do in this case? We woke up this morning and she started getting affectionate. At this point, I knew that 'morning breath' was about to get a completely new definition. I just kept praying that she was she was headed south. Then I started weighing the possibility that this type of radio-activity might actually melt my penis. I got up and told her that I had to take the dog out.

I deprived myself...of sex...on a Sunday Morning. Walking the dog at 9:00 on a Sunday morning was a better option...than SEX...three weeks into a fucking relationship. Can you believe it?

Fantasy

I hate to admit it, but this year I caved. I went in kicking and screaming, but I caved.

I'm in a fucking fantasy baseball league.

For years, I have scoffed at, ridiculed, shunned, and wanted to kill anyone who was in a fantasy league. You know those stupid conversations you hear between two morons at a party; the ones that are only slightly less excruciating than listening to two guys talk about their golf games. They go something like this:

Moron 1: I needed J.J. Putz to get a save last night.
Moron 2: He's been great all year. He's got 38 saves, and a lot of strikeouts.
Moron 1: Yeah, but he screwed me last night and my league doesn't count strikeouts. Who's your closer?
Moron 2: Mariano.
Moron 1: He's good.
Moron 2: Yeah, but he's no Putz.
Me (hate-filled thought bubble): You two are a pair of putzes!

Yes, there really is a player named Putz (see photo) and yes I have become both Moron 1 and Moron 2. I try to reserve this type of dialog for times when innocent bystanders don't have to listen to it, but sometimes I don't. I also have a constant eye on my computer screen almost every evening, as it updates my fantasy game real-time. I also find myself staying up until 1:30 am on a Tuesday, watching Anaheim vs. Seattle on my laptop.

I mean, how noble is it to root for a Major League team or any team nowadays. These blood-sucking players and even more blood-sucking owners don't give a shit about me or any fan anymore. They played a game until 4:30 AM the other day, for crying out loud. I'm a Met fan and I'll root against specific Mets sometimes. I don't give a fuck. Like Seinfeld said, rooting for a professional team is like rooting for laundry. I figure I might as well have a stake in it, especially when the guys in my league are the biggest cock-sucker, blowhards on Earth. When they invited me to play, they needed a guy and they thought I'd be a pigeon. They can blow me now, because I wrapped up the best overall record in the league this week....oops, there goes Moron #3 - sorry.

Oh and of course I'll be doing Fantasy Football. At least I'll only be wasting two nights a week for that.

***************

Speaking of Football (no this will not have anything to do with Michael Vick), I flipped the channel to the Sunday Night Game and caught the very end of the Keith Olbermann show. He signed off by saying Good Night and Good Luck. Wasn't that Edward R. Murrow's sign off? He then threw the papers on his desk at the camera. Isn't that Letterman's thing?

Just what we need on television - plagiarized irreverence...and irrelevance.


***************

Speaking of irrelevance, there is a column in the New York Post on Sundays that is so incoherent, and at the same time, derivative that I have to destroy it here and now.

By writing this, I'm sort of encouraging you to read it (including the link above does that too I guess). It's the last thing I want to do, but I want you to see for yourself how puke-inducing it really is.

It's called About Last Night and it's written by some twit named Mandy Stadtmiller. She's this chick-lit peddling, cutsey pie-nicknaming, Carrie Bradshaw wannabe. I know she'll see this; and not because I emailed her this blog address (while telling her how much she sucks) but because she's the type of person who probably Googles herself 12 times a day. The column is this nauseating, quasi stream of consciousness account of her dating life.

She's the type of person whose aspirations no doubt include having her pink and yellow covered Chick-lit bullshit novel in the new releases bin at Barnes and Noble, as well as making a guest appearance on one of those VH-1, "I Love the 70's" shows. You know those fourth rate comedians who make those unfunny comments about Ralph Mouth or Dick Clark...that's her. In fact, on her bio section of her website Mandy Stadtmiller, you'll see that she lists her one and only interest as "listing her credits". Yeeeeesh.

The picture of her on top of her column is kinda cute, but it's a grainy black and white, so who knows what she looks like. The main reason I'm spewing so much shit her way is due to the simple fact that she cannot write. She has no right taking up space in my Sunday paper...no more right than I have. Okay, I'm jealous. Is that you're simplistic analysis, ya pricks? Go ahead, you're entitled to feel that way, but it's only partly true.

When I challenged her to a 'write-off', she declined. She sited that her army of literary agents would feel it's inappropriate. Oooooh. That really sticks it too me. She has literary agents and I don't. B.F.D. I'm sure she has many more Google entries than I have too. It still doesn't make her any less shitty of a writer.

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Identify the following sound: gdluuunnnkkkygdunkkk bdddnnnfrshhhhhhh ptfptfffffushh pudubb dud.

Answer: A 6 foot, 1 inch, 40 year old man, in full backpeddle, tripping over his own ankles, spastically crashing on to an astro-turf field, curling up into a ball and rolling to a stop. (the part where he looks up and watches helplessly as I burn him for touchdown does not make a sound.)

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Join this football pool.

Cab Work

The post-date cab ride is one of life's great pleasures, most of time. This past Saturday night was one of those times – sort of.

Here's the scenario: Towards the tail end of a Merlot-fueled, yuck-fest of a first date, I manage to steal a darkened sidewalk kiss, right around the corner from The Cub Room on Sullivan Street. After a bit more wine tasting/hand holding, I sense that Phase I of the evening is starting to lose its legs. We are at least 100 blocks away from either of our apartments so I do the natural thing and flag down a cab.

As she’d ducking down to get in the car, she hesitates and turns to me. I’m totally sensing some trepidation on her part; not 'date rape' trepidation, but 'you've already shown yourself to be aggressive, so don’t try any funny stuff' trepidation. I give her a pretty disingenuous 'don't worry, I'm harmless' lip curl. It's enough to convince her. She slides in.

The mix of anticipation and uncertainty, especially on a first date, reaches a peak just about now. The events of the next fifteen to twenty minutes (depending on traffic) are very much, ahem, up for grabs . "Two stops, please," she bleats cordially to the driver while looking directly at me. Very well, but if I'm going home alone, I'm damn well going to maximize this cab ride.

I eschew screwing around and put my hand on her leg a few blocks into the ride. I'm happy to learn that it’s not immediately brushed off. She moves closer. So much for no funny stuff.

The fast twitch muscles in my fingers begin to heat up, as we kiss the taste (which had notes of plum and licorice, fyi) out of each others' mouths. I can hear the blood thumping into my eardrums and feel the adrenaline swooshing around the rest of my head. I fast-twitch her left bra strap over her shoulder. She recoils a little bit at first, but I quickly pursue, trying to stomp out this sudden pang of chastity. It seems to work as we’re pressed hard against the door, my hand up and through the bottom of her shirt.

On the other hand, my other hand is elsewhere and initial readings indicate that she's as hot and humid as a late afternoon in the Brazilian rainforest, as is the vinyl seat beneath her. I hear a whoosh now. The driver has flipped on the rear defogger - and not because of the weather. My eyes are drowning in wine and lust, as I'm sure, are hers. This, of course, is right at the point when we exit the FDR Drive...Fuuaaack! I should have told him to take First Avenue.

All things considered, it's probably a good time for her to start buttoning-up/drying off. The cab stops. I look at her with as much wine-sloshed, puppy-dog as I can muster and ask her if I can get out with her. I know the answer but there's no reason for her to look at me as if I just asked her to split the cab fare.

Magically she's freshened herself up enough in last fifteen seconds to face her doorman. I kiss her goodbye, as she climbs over me and out. I now know that in ten blocks or so, a Saturday Night Jerkfest to end all jerkfests will soon be in the offing. Before that however, I unfortunately have to face my doorman.

This story is not unique and I've always been quite a taxicab Lothario. But I don't think it's just me. I really believe that many, many girls are closet exhibitionists (if you haven't seen the skit in Woody Allen's Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex, but Were Afraid to Ask, where he's married to a woman who can only have sex in public, you must.) What better and safer way for them to express this, but in a cab. Only one other person in the room, whom they'll never see again, and he's facing the complete opposite way. It's softcore for sure, but it's still a very public display.

I try not to analyze it too much and once in a while I do get the Heisman. Maybe it's merely that some girls are just as horny as us. What do I give a shit? I'm happy to oblige. And if there is a next time, the cab is probably making just one stop.

This time, unfortunately, it's only Jerkfest fodder. At least I have some new material.


***********

Next time you see a Geico Caveman commercial, close your eyes and see if you visualize Bill Walton. Then immediately open your eyes and get that image out of your head, for chrissakes.

Beckham

If it was 3-1 or even 4-2, it probably wouldn't have raised a red flag for me.

But did you happen to catch the score of that Red Bulls/LA Galaxy game on Saturday Night? The one that Mr. Spice played in. It was 5-4. Give me a fucking break. There has never been that many goals scored in a soccer game since Rome conquered Germania in 52 BC.

Do they really expect us to believe that a league office meeting didn't take place where it was decided that defense would be abolished for this game?

Now you'll see a lot of sports talk in these pages, and in general, I could give two shits about soccer, but cynacism can be generated from anywhere.

The league is obviously desperate to generate interest with an artificial three pronged attack. Beckham, New York, and mucho scoring. OK, maybe it will work, but on the heels of the whole Donaghy/NBA mess, I hope there's nothing fishy about this game - namely a pre-determined, league mandated directive to abandon defense. If that's true, and even if it's not, soccer will continue to have as much relevance of the NBA All-Star game, i.e., none.

Speaking of soccer, can someone explain why sandlot soccer players monopolize every piece of available playground space in this city - all the time. What the hell time do these people wake up on Sunday Morning or go to bed... on any night? I'd love to pull a Superman III on their collective asses...take every soccer ball in the city , put them in one of those gigantic ball nets, fly into outer space, and throw the thing right into the fucking Sun.

Duane Reade

New Duane Reade opened up across the street today. That's a good thing I guess, but they really have to get their shit together over there. In a ten minute visit, the following took place:

They had no ice packs. How can this be? The store opened 24 hours ago and they're out of stock in something already? Doesn't a corporation like Duane Reade have a checklist of standard stuff/automatically stocked items. I mean, it's an ice pack. It's not like I was looking for a home self-colonic machine or anything complicated. They had every fucking variety of Pepperidge Farm cookies, including Milanos and Mint Milanos, and they don't have a basic medical item? Of course I picked up a three bagger of Brussels - $2.99 each with Duane Reade Club Card.

The guy ahead of me was given his change in mostly pennies. The cashier told him she was out of dimes. He looked at the pile of lincolns in his hands and she adds, 'and nickles'. How about getting a few rolls of change for the register before you open the doors? I thought she was going to pull out her purse. Incidentally, I saw that same guy at the Commerce Bank penny arcade later on in the evening.

The place was in the greatest state of chaos that a drug store could possibly be in...short of a case full of Prozac spilling out over the pharmacist's counter and on to the floor. I'll need to remember not to call in any prescriptions over there.

When did these 'drug stores' become supermarkets with no food? They have all these aisles, but nothing really useful to buy. Yet I find myself in Duane Reade three or four times a week. That being the case, I wonder why I didn't already have that ice pack.

Weekly Update

Hello All,

I'm a blogger now. Congratulations to me.

I won't bore you with a lot expository stuff, but I'll mention that I'm a 40 year old, single guy living on the Upper East Side. I’ve decided that instead of paying a $40 a week co-pay at a shrink’s office, I will air my grievances here. Will I say everything here that I would to him? Maybe eighty percent. Do I give a shit if nobody but my moron friends reads this? Not really. Will I ask another question and answer it myself? No.

I do actually want to address one of those questions however. When I said eighty percent, I didn’t mean that I’d only be eighty percent truthful. Everything you read will be true or the slightly embellished truth. And even though the title of this blog may imply the opposite, you won’t only read about stuff that pisses me (and probably you) off, but maybe a quasi-charming happenstance on a bus, a freaky event, or maybe even something that made me happy…those, of course will be far less frequent.

Sometimes I might sound crass, narrow-minded, or bigoted. If this is offensive to you, you are more than welcome to immediately get the fuck out. I won’t be making a conscious effort to be politically incorrect just for the sake of it, but sometimes, it’s how I honestly feel. Again, feel free to click the fuck out. Or better yet, let me know why you clicked the fuck out before you click the fuck out. That’s how we all can get some good dialogue going.

Also, please don’t be misled that this is a political forum. There are plenty of those around from what I hear. I will have some guest columnists pop in from time to time who a lot more about that shit than I do. We’ll also have some food, sports and movie talk. All we need is the obligatory serious story and some very soft core, non-jerkoffable pictures of TV starlets and we’ll have Maxim. Is that magazine still around? Anyway, I promise to poke around and rip off good concepts from stuff I see on other blogs, i.e. links to stuff I'm talking about, pictures and poll questions. Suggestions are welcome.

I won't make rule about it, but let's keep the :)'s and the LOL's, etc, to an absolute minimum. I realize the smiley face is necessary because of its statement softening properties and the LOL really lets every know you think something is funny, but do me a favor and save that shit for your IM's to Krissy75.

There really is nobody in my life with that screen name, but we all have our Krissy75s. She's the girl who looks really good in three photos, but not as good in the fourth, the girl with whom you've been corresponding for two weeks, but always seems to be busy when you suggest a meeting, and the girl to whom you feel you've invested enough time to at least get the opportunity to fuck.

We all know the freaking dance...the initial email, followed by the photo exchange, the IMing sessions (if photo exchange is mutually acceptable), followed by the phone call (big step), and finally the Meet-Up (which always starts with the immediate and most-of-the-time disappointing mental comparison with her picture and ends with me spending another $75).
True, non-embellished story - the other day I went through my wallet and there was receipt for $73.19 and another for $73.17 - two different girls and two different restaurants. Anyone who has any first, second or third date restaurants suggestions, by all means...dating stories too, of course

Speaking of restaurants, three of us (all guys) went to Mustang's on 85th and Second last Sunday afternoon and sat outside. First and foremost, the food was horrendous, almost inedible. It's a strange phenomenon because the food really sucked when it first opened, got a lot better when they hired a new chef a few years ago, but now it's worse than ever. It's almost like they had a meeting and decided that it would be better to go back to the old policy of bad food. "Anybody have Jorge's cell number. Let's get him back here."

But another thing that diminished our dining experience even further was that we had one of these hotshot waitresses who didn't write anything down. I mean, what's the benefit of this? It's not like it's going to impress any of us enough to increase her tip. The risk/reward for her doesn't add up and if you don't write it down, you better get it exactly right.

Anyway, one of us (not me) suggested, in a perfectly courteous manner, that she might want to write it down. Even though one of us (not me again) couldn't decide what to get and then ordered a lot of stuff which all needed to be cooked a certain way, she said she got it all. The order, of course, was completely fucked up.

In the end, it really didn't matter because anything they would have brought out would have sucked anyway. Forty bucks each for a funky-ass mushroom quesadilla and a couple of frozen Margaritas. As my father would say (I will quote him often) "Fake food, real money." The girl was sort of cute, so of course we didn't really ding her on the tip. Just another example of why it's good to be a cute girl. But I can say that Mustangs really pissed me off in New York City this week.

That new show on Showtime which comes on after Weeds, called Californication, is very good (link to trailer at the top of this page) . I was never an X-files fan, but David Duchovny is a pretty good actor. He's plays a sex addict and writer, pretty much in that order. Lotsa hot chicks who are naked more often than not and good dialogue, which is a good combination for me. Oh and Weeds is, and always has been, a great show. Weed is good too.