Oooh, Pretty...

Oooh, Pretty is a new, weekly feature here at ZFS!. Every Friday, at the end of the day, I'll display a picture of something... well... pretty. Usually it will be someone's art (because supporting the arts is good), but not always. Too many rules make C-Dog grumpy. Anyway, the first installment:



Insanely complex, layered construction paper art by Artist Jen Stark. Oooh, pretty!!!

Original link via Boing Boing!, from whence this idea sprang forth.

An (Unpleasent) Story

I am cranky with a capital "Grr..." today, mostly due to a bad, non-drinking related headache, but also because every single person that I've talked to on the phone thing morning has been impossibly difficult and irritating and, goddammit, DON'T THEY KNOW IT'S FRIDAY?!?!?

Ahem...

Sorry. Anyway, because of my general state of crankiness, and because I can't think of anything else to write about, I'm going to tell you this story:

When I was a Sophomore in High School, there was this kid, a Senior, who was a decent running back for our football team. His name was something bland, like "Mark Smith" or "Mike Jones;" a name you'd forget if you didn't write it down. He was handsome, very All-American, like Paul Walker in Varsity Blues, and he had the pretty, standard-issue Cheerleader girlfriend who rode with him every morning to school on his Kawasaki motorcycle. He wasn't the Prom King and he wasn't the President of any clubs, but he was well liked and generally considered to be an okay guy by the popular and unpopular kids alike.

The details are fuzzy as to why, exactly, but it's generally accepted as fact that, during the Christmas break of his Senior year, Mark Smith got into heroin. It's impressive, because we're talking about Arlington, Texas here; not exactly the slums of the Lower East Side. None of us at the time even really knew what heroin was, except for that those boys in Trainspotting sure seemed to get a kick out of it. To have an actual heroin user, right there in our midst... well... that was big news. Of course, we all at first thought it was the usual rumor bullshit. Sure, his grades were slipping ("plummeting" would be more accurate) and he got kicked off the football team, but c'mon... heroin? Surely you jest.

But, no. It was true. We may have been dumb hicks, but we all still knew that a person's arms aren't supposed to look like that. Open sores and ruined veins are hard to hide when they don't allow long-sleeve shirts in gym class.

The end of the year came and his class graduated. Mark Smith did not.

My Junior year was a great year for me; lots of friends, a cute girlfriend, active in the Theater Department. Parties and fun and okay grades and a brand new car. What High School is supposed to be about. I sat next to Mark Smith in my US Government class for the entire year, and the man had seen better days. Nineteen now, and no longer handsome; his teeth had gone bad, rotten, and his breath reeked of cigarettes and decay. His skin broke out too, badly, to the point where he looked like a burn victim. He wore the same clothes every day; a Pearl Jam t-shirt, greasy, black jeans and a pot-leaf medallion necklace. He never talked.

One day, he wasn't there and then he wasn't there ever again that year. We all assumed he'd died.

Finally, I was a Senior. Not as good a time as my Junior year because a lot of my friends had graduated, but not too bad. I had the lead in the school's huge Fall production of Young Frankenstein, the Gene Wilder part, and that was definitely the highlight. I was ready to get out of there, that was for damn sure. During the first week of school, it was being whispered that Mark Smith was back, clean and sober. When I finally saw him, he looked okay. Acne-scarred, but with a haircut and some new clothes. He always looked at his feet when he walked and not a single person I knew had actually spoken with him. "Good for him," was the general consensus. He's trying to get his life back and that's awesome.

It wasn't until mid-year that the full story came out. There had been an overdose the year before. A coma. Brain damage. He was now functionally retarded and he probably wouldn't graduate this year, though he was certainly giving it his all.

When graduation day came, his name was, again, not called. Mine, however, was and off I went to Austin, then to New York, then to L.A., then finally back to New York. I'm here now and, from what I understand (local gossip still runs hot, even after all these years), he's in a special home now.

He still has not finished his senior year.

The moral of this story is: DON'T DO HARD, STREET DRUGS IN HIGH SCHOOL, KIDS!!! HAPPY FRIDAY!!!

Legal Advice

If there's anyone out there with a background in law, I've got a question that I hope you can answer for me. It's an urgent matter, so... you know... sooner would better. And, of course, thanks for the trouble; I want you to know I've never made a "lawyer joke" and I think you're all quite attractive, as well as the wings that keep our society's metaphorical jet plane aloft. "Hooray for lawyers," I'm often heard saying, and I mean it.

Okay, the question is this:

Is it illegal, if you've got proof and witnesses, to kill people providing that they are really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really annoying? Because the two girls that sit the next row over from me in my office are just asking for it. I'm an easy-going, whatever sort of guy, but even I have my limits... It's like listening to two inmates from the Staten Island Home for the Stridently Moronic talk about their Myspace pages for 8 hour a day. No, sorry, it's not "like" that. It "is" that. Seriously, I'm starting to feel like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs over here.

So, lawyer-types, I ask you again, what are my chances of walking out of the courtroom a free man after I beat them to death with my stapler?

I eagerly await your reply.

In Case Anyone's Got Extra Spendin' Money...

My blog is worth $12,984.42.
How much is your blog worth?

Thanks to Lioux for the tip.

"A Little Soul" by Pulp

I think everyone's got that friend who has an amazing relationship with his or her parents. They never fight, they're best buddies that tell each other everything and they act like they're on the Family Feud every time they hang out. It's big dinners, spirited discussions and group hugs with them, always, and then you get to hear about it, possibly even with photographic evidence to back up their smiling, teary-eyed stories.

It's disgusting, isn't it?

I love my family, I do; they're all wonderful people and I know for a goddamned fact that I could have done so much worse. But we're a real family. Real, in the sense that my folks and I don't always get along. There's disappointment, there's anger, there's sulking, there's sadness. We love as much as we can, for as long as we can, but sometimes we all just revert back to our 14-year-old selves and start slamming doors and calling each other names to be regretted later.

But we press on. Fuck knows my family has been there for my worthless ass more times than I'd really care bring up in a public forum (there was a time when my Mother eschewed the usual phone greeting of "Hello?" when I called and simply answered the phone with, "How much?"). And, as I said, it could always be worse. I could have Girlfriend's family, which, no joke, make the clan in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre look like the Seavers from Growing Pains.

Real families have real problems. Way it is, way it always will be. Wouldn't change it, because it's what makes us, as a whole, who we are. And it makes the good times even more awesome.

Anyway, all of this is just a long winded introduction to Jarvis Cocker's ode to parental issues, entitled, "A Little Soul." Enjoy:

Confirmed: Brains Are Evil

I've got this theory that I've been working on for awhile that, today, I've finally been able to prove as entirely true. The theory is this: The human brain is a vessel for pure evil. I know, I know... it sounds crazy... but check this out; I've been doing some research using only the most sophisticated of scientific equipment (Google) and I've managed to uncover a secret diagram of the human brain that offers irrefutable proof that my theory is correct. Look:

Secret Diagram From The Institute For Science and Whatnot



See! You can just make out the word "evil" actually written on the brain! Yes, I feel vindicated that my efforts haven't been for naught, but I'm also gripped with an icy feeling of fear, which sort of feels like a hand made out of Popsicles is giving me a sensual massage. We, as a people, are housing an organ of pure evil inside our persons. And there's nothing we can do about it, save for drinking heavily to kill off brain cells en masse (which has the same effect as wiping out a nation's army with an A-bomb). You'll be dumber, naturally, but your brain will lack the ability to rise up against you, tormenting you... as mine did to me this very morning. Please, let me share with you my pain, so you'll know in your heart (a pleasant, kindly organ) what we're up against:

I was on the subway, staring off into space and thinking about nothing in particular as one does at 8 o'clock in the morning, when a girl stepped into my car and stood next to me. She was pretty, vaguely Middle-Eastern like supermarket hummus, and instantly familiar though I couldn't place her face. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye for a bit until I was sure that I didn't know her and that my brain was just playing tricks. But... oh, lord... my brain was merely taking batting practice; the home runs of evil were just about to start. With the suddeness of a burst sewer line, my brain flooded my memory banks with an incident so shameful that I'd banished it from my memory. Or so I thought. Seems my brain had just tucked it out of sight, like the gun hidden in the toilet tank in The Godfather, so it could brought out at any moment for a stunning, gangland-style hit.

The incident was this... A few years ago, I answered a personal ad on Craigslist, which I did quite a lot back in the day because my laziness extended even to my dating habits; writing emails sure beats having to actually put on pants and go to a bar, like normal people. Anyway, the girl who had placed the ad (we'll call her Ellie) was pleasent and witty and we emailed back and forth for a while before deciding that we should meet. Because we both had night jobs, we met in the West Village for breakfast. Now, here's where the shameful part comes in. Because I wasn't emotionally or mentally in the best of places back then, I showed up drunk. Yes, in the morning-time. My memory is fuzzy, so there's a chance that I was still drunk from the night before but, not the point. So I'm there, fairly sloshed, and Ellie is pretty, vaugely Middle Eastern (like the girl on the subway, which was clearly the trigger for all of this) and clearly unimpressed with my current state of being. I make it through breakfast without vomiting on her shoes and it's then that I realize that, ha ha, I have no money. Like, none. I don't know much, but I do know that a girl on a blind date doesn't want to hear that she's going to have to pick up the check. The look she gave me as I asked her if she'd mind floating me the cash was one of boiling disgust, mixed liberally with a weariness towards men in general. I felt awful. And hungover. I, of course, never saw her again.

So, yes, it happened and it was a shitty thing for me to do; like I need to be reminded of my past bad behavior. So why did my brain choose to dredge this up on a decent, normal Wednesday morning, years later? Was it just to fill me with shame and regret; to make me feel like a shitty person all over again?

Yes. Because brains are evil. Case closed.

UPDATE: Saving The Day

UPDATE: I don't like working. It is lame.

Walked into a swirling maelstrom of busywork here at the office this morning. Apparently, there's a deadline for a client that hasn't been met and, if we don't correct that as soon as possible, then the entire Eastern Seaboard will break off and sink into the ocean. So, once again, it's up to me to save the day with my crazy invoice-inputting skills.

It's a burden, but it's one I must shoulder. I'm so much like Superman, I'm practically wearing tights right now.

Anyway, I'll have more up later on today (provided we're not all under water) but for now, I leave you with this question:

How is it possible to ride a bike in Midtown Manhattan during rush hour and not end up a greasy, red smear along 5th avenue? Because I honestly don't understand how these lunatics (and there's no other word for them) do it.

We Need A Hero!

Finally, someone has come along to fight the good fight for us, so we don't have to! We'll be at the bar!!!

Thanks to Braden, creator of Superheros and hater of Supervillains

"Fast Food Nation," or Crushing Guilt

Hi.

I'm depressed.

It's because of McDonald's. Well, not just McDonald's; all of the fast food industry, really. Even Taco Bell.

See, I watched Fast Food Nation last night and... yeesh... let's just say that it's not a happy movie about people working together to put out a top-quality hamburger at reasonable prices. No, it's about sadness and exploitation and there's even a guy who gets a leg chopped off and, at the end of the movie, it doesn't magically become better. Ooooh no... because that wouldn't be how the real world works. In the end, the cycle continues and basically I now have the choice of eating only organic Bulgar wheat for the rest of my days, or just jumping out my office window right now and saving the cholesterol and shame the trouble of doing me in over the next thirty years.

And, okay, it's not like I didn't know all this horrible stuff before. I'm not stupid. Or not that stupid anyway. I generally know what's up. I even made an attempt at reading the book of Fast Food Nation back in college, though I was unsuccessful in my efforts due to the fact that it contained exactly zero pictures of naked ladies, which was all I was interested in at the time (Side Note: That hasn't really changed). Still, seeing the plight of those that are directly steamrolled by the fast food industry laid out in such a dramatic fashion really got to me; Richard Linklater wields this movie like a sword made entirely out of hard-forged Liberal guilt and, last night, he used that motherfucker to slice me open, but good.

So what now? With all these unpleasant images squatting in my brain, what do I do now? The obvious answer is, of course: Stop eating fast food and take the first steps down the road to living a better life that is made richer by not supporting a cruel, cold industry that crushes the disenfranchised under it's heels while it gleefully counts the fortunes it has made. And, were I a person who had any sort of willpower whatsoever, that's exactly what I'd do. Unfortunately, I've stated time and time again on this very blog how pathetically lazy I am and I wasn't really kidding. When I step through my office's revolving doors and out onto the street, my lunch money clutched excitedly in my hand, the McDonald's that's down the block beckons to me seductively. It promises scientifically-engineered-to-be-tasty food at prices that are sinfully low. It whispers to me of solace, of ease and comfort. It tells me lies like a beautiful Nazi spy that's only after our government's secrets.

And I am a weak, weak man. I am powerless to resist.

My soul for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese? God, I wish it weren't so. But it so is.

Yeah, I'm probably being melodramatic about what, essentially, is just a hamburger and the inherent commerce of same, but... still... it just feels so wrong. And not in the good, "making out behind the 7-11 with your girlfriend a half hour past curfew" kind of way. If that were the case, then we'd all be fine. No, these days, eating at McDonald's makes me me feel the same way that I assume other people feel after stomping a cat to death. And yet... here we are. Asking for the large fries with blood on our boots.

Look, what I'm trying to say is that Fast Food Nation was really a great movie and everyone should rent it tonight!!!

Sweetness And Cheer On A Monday

As a tonic to the morbid, fairly gruesome tone of my earlier post, allow me to tell you this quaint, charming story that will make your heart go, "Awwww...":

My friend Amy and I walk every morning from Union Square to our office in Midtown. We do this because she's a healthy, fit person and I, despite repeated protests and an intense amount of whining, would like to be a healthy, fit person, too. Or, at least, I'd like to not die when I'm in my early 40's because my heart is packed solid with beef fat and rich, dairy-quality butter. Anyway, I always get to Union Square at 8:15am, because I'm punctual like that, and Amy is always late because, though she may be healthy and fit, she couldn't be on time to save her life. Usually, I just sit and read until she decides to grace me with her presence, but today (since the book I'm currently reading is depressing and not fun to read early in the morning) I decided to take a stroll through the Union Square Greenmarket.

Side Note: If you live in New York and you're not a fan of the Greenmarket, then I hate you. It is awesome, and they have apple cider donuts that are truly epic.

Sadly, they did not have any apple cider donuts this morning (Girlfriend, I assure you I'd have bought you some, had they been available), so I was about to head back to Amy and I's usual meeting spot when I spotted quite possibly the sweetest elderly couple I've ever seen. They were standing behind a table full of their wares, baked goods mostly, and they were all bundled up in their scarves and wool caps and, as they stood there, his arm around her shoulders, both smiling, they were pretty much the best advertisement "falling in love and growing old together" ever had. Drawn in by their warmth, I strolled over and perused their offerings. Truthfully, it all looked top notch, but I ended up selecting a Pumpkin Cookie with Crystallized Ginger. The woman smiled at me, genuinely and with grandmotherly love, and the man stood stoically and handsomely by her side. I payed for the cookie and I walked away, happy that at the very least I'd given some money to what seemed like nice people.

Then I took a bite of my cookie. Holy. Shit. It was like taking in a mouthful of Autumn; it was harvests and fireplaces and mounds of fallen leaves and chilly walks through forests, all baked into a soft, moist treat that only cost me a dollar. It was, in short, cookie magic. The only thing, and I mean the only thing that I've tasted recently that tops this cookie was Girlfriend's Sticky Toffee Pudding, which, omigod (slobber), but that's a post for another time.

I went back immediately and bought another and there were smiles all around and good cheer bursting forth from that single booth in Union Square. It was really awesome and I recommend everyone start their dreary Mondays by purchasing cookies from sweet, elderly couples at the Union Square Greenmarket.

Perks one up better than a cup of coffee, for damn sure, and it just makes you feel all fuzzy-wuzzy with joy. Everyone needs that, every now and again.

Morbitity And Mortality On A Monday

What with the results of Anna Nicole Smith's autopsy being released today and all, I think that now is the perfect time to talk about our own deaths. Specifically, how we'd all like to die, were we given a choice. I've given this a lot of thought over the years and I've got the field narrowed down to a few, I think, worthy candidates. They are:

Cut down by a sniper - Oooh, dramatic! Particularly if it happens right as I'm about to reveal some important information to a top-level CIA agent. Plus, if the sniper's good at his job, it'll be quick and painless. Bonus points if the CIA agent is a good friend and is therefore obligated to avenge my death.

Squished by a bus as while pushing a crying toddler out of the way - The last part is crucial, because it's lame if I get run down by a bus because I'm too busy fiddling with my iPod to notice the large wad of metal that's hurtling towards me. But if I sacrifice my life to save an innocent child, well, that's money in the bank. Not my bank, though, because I'll be dead. But you know what I mean.

Falling from a great height - We're talking, like, from off of the Empire State Building, or from that new Skywalk thingy they've got at the Grand Canyon that I wouldn't set foot on for all the money in the world hand-delivered to me by a naked Reese Witherspoon. If I were to fall off of a ladder and break my neck while cleaning out the gutters, that's a lame and sad way to go. But if I fall off a hugely tall building and/or canyon, well, at least I'll get some style points. Also acceptable: Parachute not opening, but only if it's caught on video.

Shark attack - I'd be giving back to nature, sort of, so that's nice. Also, my friends and family will always have an interesting story to tell on the anniversary of my death. Hell of a lot better than, "Well, he ate a lot of cheese and one day his heart just went, 'Yeah, I'm done.'" I must remember, though, to fight that shark 'til the bloody end... it's no fun for anyone if I just scream a lot and then get eaten. I have to hack at that motherfucker like Ahab or, at the very least, like Quint from Jaws.

Killed in a sword fight - Because who gets killed in a sword fight these days?

Beaten to death by Jackie Chan - If it ever turns out that I've got the Cancer or some similar, horrible disease, I'm going to try as hard as I can to get Jackie Chan to beat me to death. Because, for one thing, it's Jackie Chan. Awesome! And for another, you know it'd be an elaborately choreographed, back flipping, flying through the air, chop-socky kind of death that would be all kinds of nifty. Shit, he could even film it and use it in one of his movies. And then he'd dedicate the movie to me... yeah... okay, I'm going to pick this one. This is how I want to die. Does anyone know how I can get ahold of Jackie Chan? I want to have his number at the ready, just in case.

So what about you guys? How do you want to take your final bow?

Behind The Times

Question... Was everyone else already aware that the US version of The Office is hilarious and awesome? Because I just watched the six-episode first season and, gotta say, that's some quality, laugh-tasitc, uncomfortable, heart-breaking television right there.

You were all aware? All of you? Really? Wow.

Well, hey, I'm in the club now, right? Better late than never, as my father used to say when he gave me Christmas presents in April. Who's with me... anybody...?

Man, can I tell you how much it blows being the guy that's always behind the curve, pop culture-wise? I'm all like, "Hey everybody, this new band called The Shins will blow your mind" and everyone goes, in unison, with a smirk, "Um, yeah, we loved them too when they first came out four years ago, so why don't just go ahead and buy that Garden State t-shirt and we'll check ya later." It's not my fault I don't pay attention to things, you know? I just happen to be more self-involved than most (proof: this blog). Like that's a bad thing, or something.

Hrm... well, anyway... all I'm saying is that The Office is awesome. At least season 1 is. I'll let you know how season 2 treats me, though I'm sure you've all seen it, so you know what's up. Oh and, hey, just a heads up, I'm pretty sure this book I just read is going to be the next big thing. It's about a theme park full of dinosaurs and all the dinosaurs go crazy and eat a bunch of people. So you just remember who told you about Jurassic Park first, m'kay?

C-dog. That's who.

Quizno's: The Final Verdict

I went with my friend Amy to Quizno's for lunch today because, apparently, I hate my stomach and I want to treat it in as shabby a fashion as possible. Also, I figured that I should give the big Q one more shot after the effusive praise it was shown here (in the comments section). Perhaps I was wrong, I thought... perhaps I've been bad-mouthing a fine sandwich shop for years without any cause or provocation.

Turns out, no. I was right the first time.

I got the "Turkey, Bacon & Guacamole" sub and it was easily one of the most disappointing sandwich experiences that I've ever been party to. And as you can imagine, I've eaten a lot of sandwiches in my day. So let's break down the badness, shall we?

The crimes:

Dressing Abuse - Low-quality Ranch dressing and even lower-quality, possibly-found-in-a-meteor-that-fell-to-Earth, guacamole should be kept to a minimum, not slathered on so thick you could use the run-off to lubricate farm machinery. My original condemnation of "gloopy" still stands.

Old Bacon - I love bacon. Like, to a scary degree. I would make out with bacon. I'd marry bacon and make an honest smoked meat out of it. It takes a lot to get me to not eat bacon and yet, somehow, Quizno's had me picking all of it off my sandwich by the second bite. I'm certain that this bacon was, at one time, freshly cooked. However, I'm also certain that that time was the late 80's.

Flavorless Meat - I've eaten take-out menus that tasted more like turkey than the turkey in this sandwich.

Bread - The bread was okay.

So, there you go. And now, let's end the suspense...

THE FINAL VERDICT:

On Being A Pupkin

I've decided that I'd like to be famous. For anything really, I'm not picky. Writing would be nice, obviously, but I'd be okay with being famous for creating a hot, new style of rap, or maybe for inventing a kind of delicious, edible hat. I'd even be willing to take a bullet for someone who's already famous (George Clooney, for example... rawr!) because, if that happened, I could at the very least get on CNN. Again, what I get famous for isn't really the issue; I'll take what I can get.

Actually, the fame, per se, isn't really what I'm after either. From what I understand, when you get famous, people are always bugging you to sign crap, to talk to them, to smile for the camera, to say "something witty." Puh-leeze. I won't even do that stuff for my girlfriend, much less a bunch of yahoos who, I assume, smell. No, it's really the things that come with fame that I'm after; specifically, the money and the power. Okay, just the money. I'd like to have just an obscene amount of money so I could buy myself and my friends (mostly just me, though) really expensive electronics and nice pairs of tennis shoes and even a fancy condo somewhere on a beach where I could have frosty, fruity beverages made with fine, imported rums brought to me ever 20 minutes for the rest of my life.

That, kids, is what I'd like.

However, I'm pretty sure it's not going to happen. Oh, it's not that I don't think I've got the talent or anything; I'm reasonably sure that edible hat idea would go over like gangbusters and, when it comes to writing, I'm at least better than Dean Koontz and that guy's sold tons of books. It's more that I don't like feeling like a Pupkin.

Allow me to explain: Rupert Pupkin (pictured above) is a character played by Robert De Niro in Martin Scorsese's 70's classic The King of Comedy. He's a schlub who wants nothing more than to be a famous comedian and he goes about this by hounding, badgering, cajoling, stalking and eventually kidnapping a very famous talk show host, played surprisingly well by Jerry Lewis. It goes without saying that Pupkin is out of his mind, but that's not the point. The point is, he's one of those types; the ones that are so singularly focused on "achieving their goals" that it becomes all that they are about. Of course, for the sake of the movie, this is blown out of proportion and taken to it's most illogical extremes. But I've known the real-world Rupert Pupkins and they are a scary, irritating lot. Example: A good friend of mine wants to be a [generic artistic profession]. Badly. So badly, in fact, that it's all she ever talks about. It's all she ever thinks about. It's all she's about, period, and it's a big part of why I don't really hang out with her anymore. Will she "achieve her dream?" Probably, to one degree or another, because people who are Pupkins generally annoy enough of the right people to be allowed into the fabled gated-community known as Fame. But only at the cost of being someone nobody wants to hang out with, under normal circumstances.

As for myself, I can never, will never be a Pupkin. I don't have it in me. I don't have that passion to devote myself to a lifetime of schmoozing and networking (gag) and chatting up people, constantly, about my amazing line of edible hats (now in Sour Cream & Onion!) or my ability to write sentences that amuse those with low standards. Maybe it's the way I was raised, or maybe it's because of a certain weakness of character, or maybe it's because I'd simply prefer to sit around and drink beer all the time... I'll let you draw your own conclusions. But the fact remains the same; I'm not a Pupkin. And therefore, I'll never be famous.

So, my point, finally, is this... Would one of you guys mind terribly dropping fame in my lap, because I'm certainly not up to grabbing that brass ring on my own. I'd really appreciate it and, hey, when I'm famous, I'll sign anything you want me to. As long as you keep the fruity drinks coming.

Thanks!!!

Worth Your Valuable Time

Not to harp on the subject or anything, but if you're wondering what the Best Album of 2007 is, look no further. I just bought it and I've already listened to it 3,823 times and used it as the basis for several new dance steps that will be sweeping the nation any day now (be on the look out for those).

Seriously, why aren't more albums just... crazy concept... FUN? There's so much art-noodling and pretention out there these days, listening to music has turned into a long slog through a Soho art gallery, but with shitty lyrics and no base line. It's like somewhere along the way, people forgot how to whoop it up, how to tear it down, how to let it all hang out. Not The Fratellis, though; these guys stomp and shake and jangle and just flat-out ROCK faster, harder and better than any ten bands you could name.

I beseech you to buy this album; I implore you, even. Do yourself a favor. Support fun music today!!!

Server Crash!

We've been without internet for the last two hours because our building's server crashed and, seriously, you'd think that our oxygen supply had been cut off. Never have I been party to such histrionics, wailing and gnashing of teeth, and that was just from me! All my co-workers were going through the seven stages of grief, rapidly, and being damn vocal about it too. Not that I don't understand, of course; Hell, I started cutting myself from the stress like that one guy in The Abyss.

Anyway, we're back in business, it seems, so... I don't know... everybody dance!

Bite Me, World!

Maybe it's because I'm hungover, or maybe it's because it's totally blah outside, or maybe it's because I wore a sweater today and it's currently hotter than Baptist hell in my office but, whatever the reason may be, I'd like to cordially invite the entire world to bite me. Yeah, that's right... I said it... today, it's me against everybody. Bring it on, humanity!!! I'm spoilin' for a fight of global proportions!!!

Oh god my head hurts so bad... who am I kidding... I couldn't fight a toddler in this condition, let alone a world full of jerks. Let me tell you this, kids, alcohol is an evil, evil thing. It's forged by hate-filled madmen in a subterranean lair so dank and so foul, it makes the bathroom in Trainspotting look like an inviting, French meadow where the air smells like falling in love and the sunshine feels like an erotic massage. Alcohol is pure, uncut sorrow. It's snake venom jacked up with wasp-stings and broken fingers. It's grim death, in liquid form.

Ironically, the one thing that would more than likely make me feel better is a Bloody Mary; one that's brutally spicy and served in a container large enough to qualify as a gazebo. But, since I can't have a Bloody Mary right now (stupid job), I'll just sit here and peruse the daily headlines, trolling for solace from this cruel, mean world. I'm sure there's something here that will restore my faith in humanity and make me feel like every little thing will turn out just fine. There's just gotta be. Because, as they said in that one movie that I can't currently remember the name of, "It can't rain all the time."

Yeah. Okay. Breathing deeply now. We're going to get through this. We're going to be just fine!

Oh... wait... NEVER-FUCKING-MIND!!!

The Oddest Thing I've Heard Today

Apparently Aaron Sorkin is teaming up with The Flaming Lips to turn the latter's album "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots" into a new Broadway musical.

The first thing that comes to mind is, naturally, "Wha...?"

I don't really know what to think about this. It's weird.... I like Aaron Sorkin; A lot, actually. And I like The Flaming Lips (well, I liked that specific album, anyway). But, you know, I like beer and I like Lucky Charms, but I wouldn't necessarily put one with the other.

Hmm... I'm actually at a bit of a loss here. Thoughts, guys?

Source: Gawker

UPDATE: Boy Scout

UPDATE: Just to clarify, I don't hate Boy Scouts, as in the kids that are Boy Scouts and enjoy camping and whatnot. My enmity is focused squarely on the Boy Scout organization's policy-makers. Because those guys are douchebags. Also, I was never, myself, a Boy Scout, choosing instead to spend my childhood indoors doing children's theater, where the possibility of me running across big, scary bugs was much less likely.

-----------------------------------------

Well, the Boy Scouts of America certainly dodged a bullet yesterday. What a relief! Now, with this missing-scout crisis behind them, they can get back to their day to day business of hating gay people.

Oh, but I kid the Bible-thumping, hate-filled, children's betterment institution...

Seriously though, can you imagine what would have happened if they'd found that kid dead? That would have leveled the Boy Scouts. "We teach kids how to survive in the woods... well, except for that one kid, who, when faced with a real-life situation where he could implement our methods, died of exposure and was eaten by a wolf. However, it appears that he made just a world-class Pinewood Derby car before he completely dehydrated. So that's nice."

What blows is that, since the kid didn't die, he's now the greatest marketing tool the Scouts ever had. He's basically living proof that all parents must, must, must put their kids in the Boy Scouts because, if they don't, well then they obviously hate their children and want them to die a cold and lonely death in the woods. And did I mention the wolves? I'm sure their enrollment numbers are going to be bananas for the next year, at least.

Now, I'm not saying that I wish the kid had died out there; I don't, obviously. I just wish that, when they found him, he'd gone on the record as saying, "I survived in the woods because I'm a big fan of that Survivorman show on the Discovery Channel, not because of anything I learned from these kerchief-wearing bastards. Also, I'm gay. Suck on that, Boy Scouts!!!"

Anyway, I really don't like the Boy Scouts because of their policies on homosexuals and their pesky habits of forcing God down little kid's throats. Did I make that clear?

Me Want!!!

Wow! I mean... I'm already pretty lazy now. But think of the maximum levels of laziness I could reach with this son of a bitch! Man... the only thing it would need to make it more perfect would be a snack-bringing robot. Oh, and a place that you can pee in. But that's probably flying to close to the sun. As it were.

Source: Design Boom

Ten Things I Find Creepy

NOTE: This is not counting clowns or ventriloquist dummies or anything like that that's totally obvious. Because there's creepiness everywhere, don'tcha know.

1. Waking up to find that someone is watching you sleep - Can you believe that some people actually think this is romantic. Freaks. If you're watching someone sleep, it means you're about thirty seconds away from trying to cut out their kidneys, whether you want to or not. It's that creepy.

2. Midgets - Insensitive? Yes. Does that change the fact that they're creepy? No.

3. People with gauges in their earlobes - Ick. Nobody wants to look at your weird, gummy flesh. I used to work at a video store where at least half of our clientele sported these abominations and every day behind the counter was one long case of the willies.

4. Stairwells - Yes, they get you from one floor of a building to another. But also, they're where perverts and killers lurk. Especially the dimly lit ones, like the ones in my office that lie between me and the candy machine.

5. "Blue Bayou" by Roy Orbison - For some reason, I'm pretty sure this is the song that's going to be playing on the radio when I get horribly murdered.

6. People who fanatically collect things - Unless it's records, it's creepy. Fortunately, we have the Food Network to keep track of these people, like that one woman who has every single piece of merchandise that's ever been produced with the Pillsbury Doughboy on it. The police need to check her crawlspaces for mummified bodies.

7. Walls that drip blood - Okay, this hasn't technically happened to me. Yet. But when it does, I'm sure I'll be sufficiently wigged.

8. Ants - (Involuntary spasms) There's just so many of them, swarming, hunting, lusting for the taste of human flesh. I assume. My feelings on the subject may be tainted by a childhood game of Hide N' Seek where I hid, accidentally, in a red ant bed, but probably not.

9. People who don't own a TV - What the fuck are you hiding? I mean... at home at night... what do you do??? Lop off peoples heads and put on puppet shows, that's what.

10. Those "number" stations on the radio - They may not have these any more, but I remember when I was a kid running through the stations on my portable radio and landing on a couple that were just broadcasting recordings of a dead-voiced woman reading numbers in Spanish. They always sounded far away and echo-y, and they always chilled my blood.

"Dashboard" by Modest Mouse

Hey kids. I'm once again working the West Coast shift at the office today, so, until I'm firmly ensconced in my cubicle and in a writin' frame of mine, please do enjoy this video offering:



Heh... sea captains.

Man, I love bands that actually bother to attempt telling a story with their videos. Seems like now, most videos are just image collages that pulse to the beat of the music. Either that, or they're animated. Both of which tell me that the band doesn't care about the video at all and would rather hang out in their million dollar tour buses shooting up fine, imported heroin with underage prostitutes while worshiping Satan (I'm looking at you, Radiohead...).

Anyway, my point is, Modest Mouse is awesome. I'll admit though, that I'm biased, being as how my love of their collected works is one of the few good things that sprung forth from my time spent as a prisoner of Los Angeles. Even now, putting on their "Good News For People Who Love Bad News" album is like tearing a hole in the fabric of time and space; suddenly I'm back on the 405, stuck in traffic, trying to make it to my dinner shift at the Outback in Northridge.

(shudder)

Ooookay, that's enough Modest Mouse for now. I'm having flashbacks like a 'Nam veteran.

Ugh

In case any of you are rushing to your computer in a cold sweat, worried about my current state of being on this pleasantly cool evening, please, allow me to put your mind at rest:

Right at this moment, I feel exactly like a reticulated python who has just taken down, crushed to death and swallowed whole an entire wild gazelle on the plains of the Serengeti. Me feeling this way (in other words, fat, bloated and even more fat) has a lot to do with the fact that Girlfriend and I went out for a meal at this little Spanish food place where, unbeknownst to us, they serve portions so large that the ghosts of John Candy and Raymond Burr appeared and went, "Goodness gracious... that's much to much food." We're talking piles of food here; mounds, even. That's right! Real, no-foolin' mounds!!! With it all spread out before me like plates of batter-fried jewels, I felt like one of history's more decedent, lush-living kings.

Now I just feel sick.

Anyhoo, that's where I'm at this evening. Now I'm going to lay on the bed and digest until morning. Wish me luck!

I Haven't Seen 1-Through-299, But...

I finally got around to seeing the ultraviolent "Best Abs" contest known as 300 this weekend. I thought it was pretty good, all things considered; it certainly looked fancy and, as always, I'm a big fan of movies that feature many, many, many beheadings. It was, in general, very rousing and it made me seriously consider purchasing a gladiator outfit until I realized that me wearing it would only lead to Girlfriend choking on her own laughter-induced vomit.

If I have to nitpick (and make no mistake, I do have to nitpick), my problems with 300 were these:

- I'm so not a fan of using modern rock music in historical epics that, when the crunchy guitars and thumping baseline kicked in during a particularly over-dramatic ship-wrecking scene, I caused a hurricane in Malaysia because I rolled my eyes that hard.

- They had to fight a rhinoceros? Really? Well that's just comical. Silly rhinoceros!

-I think they were shooting for "exotic-looking" with the main bad guy, but they ended up a lot closer to "West Village cabaret performer" than anything else.

- Wait... did that fat guy have swords for arms? I... um... what? I'm going out on a limb here and say that that's probably not 100% historically accurate.

- So, what with the leather jockstraps and sweaty fight scenes and all, I'm just going to assume that the set smelled exclusively like balls throughout the entire production. No wonder the extras look so pissed all the time.

Otherwise, it was good fun. Very stabby, if you like that sort of thing.

Things I Know By Heart

I was informed by Ruth over at NY/NZ that she had "tagged me with a meme," a phrase I found vaguely menacing until I realized that it simply meant that she'd created a series of questions and wanted me to answer them. Personally, I think this is a fine idea since it means I won't have to think of anything to write about this morning; Monday's are always the foggiest time for my brain, what with the weekend's excesses and all. So, without further dicking around...

Things I Know By Heart

Two novels/plays/poems you know by heart: "Microserfs" by Douglas Coupland and "Kitchen Confidential" by Anthony Bourdain. I've read both books at least twelve or thirteen times each and they are both, for very different reasons, fantastic. If you're into computer nerds and junkie chefs, respectively, then I highly recommend you check them out. Hell, even if you're not, you can always learn to love those nerdy and junk-sick bastards as much as I do.

Two films/television shows you can quote from extensively: Well, The Simpsons, obviously. I was totally one of those geeks in high school who'd have long conversations with friends that consisted entirely of Homer Simpson quotes. And probably Buffy the Vampire Slayer too. As for movies, it would have to be Annie Hall (Ruth and I have that in common, it seems) and Goodfellas, because I'm in at least one way not a total nerd.

Two songs to which you know every word: Jesus, there are so many. Hmm... Okay, I'm going to take this question to mean, "What songs can you absolutely karaoke the shit out of" and the answer to that question would be Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" and Take That's "Back For Good." Runner ups would include Air Supply's "All Out of Love," Joe Jackson's "Is She Really Goin' Out With Him," and Hall & Oates's "Private Eyes."

Two dishes you can make without a recipe: Not much of a cook, me (despite the fact that I held down a job for a year as a pizza chef at Whole Foods), but my two "Date Night" dishes are these: Homemade Tomato-Basil Soup and this one pasta that I make that's got tomatoes, spinach, cream cheese and garlic in it. It doesn't have a name, though I suppose we could call it C-Dog's Awesome Pasta That He Makes When He's Trying To Get Laid. Probably wouldn't look great in a cookbook, though.

Two cities you can navigate without a map: New York City (natch') and Austin, Texas, though I've recently found the latter to be not as true as it once was. I can usually still get where I need to go in Arlington, but if it's anywhere that I didn't go all the time in High School, I'm pretty much fucked. And I could probably, if pressed, navigate around Los Angeles a least a little bit, but no promises. So basically NYC is the best I've got.

So there ya go; a little bit more about yours truly. You are all a few IQ points lower for having read this and for that, I'm truly sorry. However, it was fun to write on account of my enormous ego! Thanks again Ruth!!!

Erin Go Meh

This may come as a bit of a shock to you regular readers, but, despite the fact that I'm as big a booster of alcohol as you're likely to find, I'm not a big a fan of St. Patrick's Day. Don't get me wrong, when I was a younger man, I used to spew green vomit with the best of them; now though, not so much.

A big part of my shift in opinion comes from the fact that I'm exactly 0% Irish. We're talking a complete lack of Irish-ness, here. Not even a wee drop. The closest I've ever come was having an Irish best friend in high school and that, for sure, isn't very close at all. So, because of that, I feel a bit silly whooping it up in a large, foam Leprechaun hat on a day that's not really meant for me. Now, if you're someone who is Irish, or even part-Irish, I say: "Tear the motherfuckin' city down!" It's your day, dudes. If they had a national holiday celebrating fat guys, you'd have to pull my wasted ass off the roof of a city bus before I started mooning people. My point is this: I don't enjoy feeling like a poseur.

My second issue with St. Patrick's Day is more of a personal one; I really, really, really, really, really, really don't like crowds. Sure, if I'm going to a concert or something, I can deal, but there are few things I hate more than being jammed in a packed bar with a bunch of fratly types all going, "WOOOOO!!!!" Maybe that makes me totally anti-social and maybe that makes me lame; don't care. Parenthetically, most of the people that you find crammed into bars on St. Patrick's Day are about as Irish as I am. Which only makes it worse.

My third and final reason is really the main one... I don't care for the "have-to"-ness of St. Patrick's Day. I've had numerous people over the years say to me, essentially, "But it's St. Patrick's Day, you have to go drinkin' man." Well, sorry, but I don't have to do a goddamned thing. My drinking doesn't need to be done on a specific day, thanks, because I'm not a fucking teenager. Drinking is for all days, period. This reason, I'll admit, may stem from a larger problem that I have with being told what to do. Still, I think it's relevant.

Anyway, all of this is a roundabout way of saying that last night, Girlfriend and I stayed home, got drunk and watched movies. It was the bestest St. Patrick's Day ever!!!

Let's End The Week On A High Note

Source (of brilliance): I Can Has Cheezburger

Tonya Harding: Fugly

Back in the day, Tonya Harding looked alright. Not great, of course; not gorgeous or anything, but not bad:

She had that look about her that spoke to a childhood spent sniffing a lot of glue and she definitely reminded one of an IHOP waitress more than anything else, but... still... she wasn't totally without her trashy, trailer park-ish charms. All things considered, she looks like the kind of girl that hangs out in small town bars and who's slept with everybody because she's got ridiculous daddy issues. Slightly busted, but when you're drunk enough, she's not too shabby.

Sweet crap, how things do change:

Yikes. Far be it from me to make fun of someone's appearance but... man! She's starting to resemble ex-New York Yankees manager Casey Stengal and, believe me when I say, that's not a good look for anyone. Including Casey Stengel. So what happened? I'll admit that Tonya Harding has dropped of my (as well as, I assume, everyone else's) radar in the last few years or so. I know she had a "porn" out at one point, or at least somebody had released her wedding night video. I've actually seen some of it and seriously, ew. Also, I think she was involved in one of those Celebrity Boxing things on Fox which, I guess, might explain why she currently looks like she's taken multiple blows to the face.

Otherwise, I've got nothing. It's got to be drugs, right? With her life being what it is, that's pretty much the only destination at which I could see her arriving. Either that, or she just really, really hit the Hostess products hard after her 15 minutes ran out.

Anyway, anyone care to shed some light on this subject? Or do we, collectively, not care? Because I'm good with either.

Thanks to Andrew for showing me the above picture and ruining my breakfast.

And Then My Head Exploded...

I don't know how the subject of geography originally came up, but I do know that I just spent fifteen minutes explaining to some of my co-workers that:

A) Europe is, in fact, a continent

and...

B) Russia is a part of Asia, despite the fact that "nobody speaks Chinese there."

And then I had to go to the supply closet so I could privately weep for the state of education in our country. Oh, and I stole some pens.

So that was my morning.

Best. Mugshot. Ever.

Source: Boing Boing

(My) True Colors

Last night, Girlfriend's grad school class was canceled because her teacher got mugged on her way to the university. When told of this, my first reaction was, and I quote, "Weird. Who gets mugged anymore?" Then I went back to putting up the laundry while I thought about what I wanted for dinner.

After I'd decided on burritos, I used Google to look up who was the most awful person in the whole wide world and, turns out, it's totally me.

Anyway, just thought you should know.

"Flathead" by The Fratellis

There are songs that make you want to drink by yourself in a corner of your room. There are songs that make you want to tell a cop to go fuck himself right to his face. There are songs that make you feel like love can really save us all and there are songs that make you feel like love will be the bullet that eventually ends your life. There are songs that make you feel everything much more strongly and there are songs that make you feel nothing in particular.

And then there are songs that make you want to gather all your friends at your favorite bar so you can drink bottles of champagne and eat Pixie Stix while dancing on the tables as the bartender gives a big thumbs up that lets the crowd know the drinks are on the house tonight. This is one of those songs:

And, yes, I know it was recently used in iPod ads. I don't care. This song is the sound that really cool people hear in their heads all the time. It's roof-top parties and Saturday nights in late Spring. It's the dazzling white lights of being young in the city, or at least of not being too old to remember what being young in the city was like.

I really like this song.

Thanks to Blythe at the Bee-Spot for doing the legwork on this one.

Apologies and Advertisments

Well, after a long night of negotiations, back room deals and an extended secret meeting in an underground leather bar, the makers of Ultimate Dumplin' Schnapps and I have finally reached an agreement.

They apologized, which I really do appreciate. I'm also allowing them to use my image in their ads, as you can see (I'm told the commercial is already an overnight sensation in Japan). And as a bonus, I walked away with a lifetime supply of Ultimate Dumplin' Schnapps which, besides being as tasty as a plate of Southern-style dumplin's, is a lot like drinking straight kerosene. But more dumplin'-y.

So everybody wins!!!

Werewolf Battles Blowfish

These motherfuckers ripped me off!!! I knew as soon as Ted Turner got interested in my "skillz," all of the "imitation" sites would start coming out of the woodwork. Bastards!!!

If you're like Zombie Fights Shark! and hate people who are dirty cheaters, go give them large helpings of sass on my behalf.

Rally, troops, RALLY!!!!!

This Blog For Sale

Girlfriend and I were discussing this article last night, which details the recent buying of TV-recapping website extraordinaire, Television Without Pity, by the Bravo cable network which, by extension, is owned by The Dark Overlord and Unholy Bringer of "Good" Things To Life, General Electric.

She asked me if I would do that; if some large, faceless network were to hand me a bag of money for the rights to my blog, would I take it. I then explained to her the concept of artistic integrity, and, more specifically, how I have none of it and that I would of course sell this website to the highest bidder at the first available opportunity. Hell, I'd sell it to the lowest bidder; you got 50$ and a case of Budweiser? Want a blog that's contains numerous pictures of a fat, drunk guy? Take it, it's yours!!!

So, with that in mind, and since Bravo seems to be leading the charge of cable channels snapping up web properties, please allow me to take this time to whore my ass out like a strung-out junkie to the various predatory networks. Zombie Fights Shark! will treat you right, Big Poppa, as long as you gots the green:

PLEASE BUY MY BLOG, NETWORKS!!!

The Food Network - Dudes, I love cooking. Okay, I love eating. Buy ZFS! and I'll take pictures of me eating stuff. I'll even concede to having your fleet of shiny, polished chefs come over to my apartment and cook me food. And if you could send over Alton Brown for my girlfriend, I'm sure she'd appreciate it (Girlfriend likes the geeky ones). But keep that Rachel Ray back at the studios. I get the feeling that she probably steals.

SciFi Channel - Star Wars was awesome, but I really prefer Empire Strikes Back. See, I totally know what I'm talking about. Plus, the title of my blog is a reference to an old horror movie from the 70's (and it's an obscure Italian one, at that); I'm so one of you already I practically have a Battlestar Galactica tattoo. Hey, if I get a Battlestar Galactica tattoo, will that up my chances here?

Animal Planet - Dogs rule. So do parrots and Bengal tigers. Cats are okay and I'm not opposed to hanging around with some llamas. Look, I'll write about how I chill with any animal you'd like, as long as I don't have to fuck around with snakes or ants or shit like that. And I find bats to be freaky, but I can tolerate them if need be. Plus... "Shark" is are already in the title.... c'mon, it's kismet!

Fox Network - If you can arrange it, I'm not opposed to sponsering an actual fight between a Zombie and a Shark on national television. Seems like you guys would be way into that sort of thing.

Bravo - Since you're already buying stuff, why not buy the best of the blogs that don't try very hard? I'll promote the shit out of that Top Design show that I can't imagine people are actually watching (though I'm sure it's really excellent). And, hey, if it helps, the "real housewives of Orange County" can crash at my place if they're doing press stuff in New York. As long as they're not bitches about sharing a bathroom.

The Discovery Channel - I just discovered that I'd sell my soul for a very reasonable price, so right there we've got something to talk about. Plus, those Mythbuster guys can use my blog anytime they want, as long as they let me blow shit up with them.

Playboy Channel - PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE!!! Hef, dude, I'll keep an eye on any of the spare girlfriends you're not currently using. I'll write about whichever boobies you currently think are awesome. I'll even objectify women if you'd like! I'm not above anything!!!

Logo - Yeah, ZFS! will go gay for pay. What of it?

The Learning Channel - Um... I can learn stuff, I guess. Or, wait, would you need me to actually teach people things; is that you guys's deal? Because I don't really know anything worth teaching, unless your channel's got a burning need for an instructional blog about how to waste an ungodly amount of your own time.

So there you go. Let the bidding begin!!!

ZFS! Goes To Chicago

So, a month from now, I'll be invading Chicago with some friends. We've got very loose plans that are basically open to anything as long as it's a good time and, of course, cheap. The people I'm going with have been there before but I, personally, haven't had the pleasure. Being as how that's the case, I don't really know anything about Chicago except for what I've read in the sports pages and whatever information I've gleaned from repeated viewings of Ferris Buellers Day Off.

I do know that I want to eat Chicago pizza, eat a Chicago-style hot dog and, if possible, check out a Cubs game or at least get a tour of Wrigley Field if the Cubs are on the road.

Other than that, I've got nothin'.

So, the planning begins... now!!! Readers of Zombie Fights Shark, I ask you this question: Anyone know what's good to see/do/eat/drink in the Windy City?

C'mon, help a Chicago-newbie out!!!


NOTE: I'll probably ask this again before the departure date, just to be irritating.

Don't Drink Dumb

UPDATE: Girlfriend would like it pointed out that she told me not to get the 1800's Ultimate Margarita beverage. I chose not to listen and paid the price; the price... of The Pukies!

If you've been reading this site for any length of time, you've probably figured out by now that I'm... oh... not the quickest of men, brains-wise. Which is not to say that I'm a complete idiot or anything, despite what several ex-girlfriends, former teachers and anyone who has ever seen me try to do math might have to say on the subject. It's just that I have a tendency to do things that fly in the face of common sense and general smarts.

Last night was no exception.

Actually, the story starts on Sunday, when I was struck by a powerful craving for margaritas (a common enough occurance, as cravings go). My options were these:

A) Visit one of the fine Mexican establishments in my neighborhood and have a delicious, professionally prepared margarita, just the way I want it.

B) Buy some tequila and some frozen, margarita-flavored concentrate that's actually not bad if you squeeze half a lime into it.

or...

C) Buy a bottle of 1800's Ultimate Margarita, which is a sickly-sweet, pre-made bottle of a margarita-esque substance that tastes a lot closer to a melted lime popsicle than it does to anything represented by choices A or B. Keep in mind: I've had this stuff before and I thought it was, and I quote, "butt-nasty."

Because I am, as we discussed, not the quickest of men, I of course went with option C. Why? Hell, I don't know. Maybe I thought it would be different this time. Maybe I thought that I was remembering my previous experience wrong and that, in all actuality, this neon-green, viscous substance was really a tasty beverage not unlike what you'd find South of the border in a small, coastal village's one and only watering hole. Naturally, I was dead wrong, but, because the craving for margaritas left as quickly as it had come, I didn't find this out until yesterday.

So, I get home from work last night and I'm thirsty for a strong drink (shocking, I know). There's no beer in the house and I'm running low on whiskey, which I prefer to save for a really rough day, so my only course of action is the Ultimate Margarita. I take the bottle from the fridge and I plop down on the couch, where I proceed to lay that evil bastard low, finishing the whole thing in about an hour. It is disgusting. Noxiously sweet, which I hate, and about the same consistency of that junk they put on sno-cones (I think that, technically, you're supposed to put 1800's Ultimate Margarita over ice, but I chose to ignore that serving suggestion because drinking straight from the bottle is way more classy).

After the last swallow hits my stomach, I'm overwhelmed with that naggingly specific pukey feeling that's all too familiar to those of us who are known, on occasion, to over-indulge. This time, though, it wasn't the alcohol's fault, or at least not entirely. No, the bulk of the fault lay in the drink's ridiculous amount of sugar which, when mixed with the grade-Z tequila and sloshed around in my stomach, threatened to become volatile. I spring into action. Or, rather, I lay on Girlfriend and I's bed and moan for a little while. Then I decide that a nice can of beer would cut through the gloopiness in my stomach and settle me to an even keel, so I stumble down to the bodega and buy myself a sixer.

Back in the apartment, the pukies rage on. I begin to sweat and the room gets all spinny. So, in a final effort to beat back the tide of nausea, I get into the shower (with my beer, duh) and turn on the cold water. I stand under that wonderfully healing gush of icy water for at least twenty minutes, until the last wave has subsided in my guts.

It was, it turns out, the only smart decision I made in a 48-hour period stuffed to bursting with poor choices and lapses in judgement. I did not puke last night and I'm only mildly hungover this morning, so praise be to the almighty cold shower; a drinking man's secret weapon.

Moral of this story: DON'T BUY 1800's ULTIMATE MARGARITA!!! EVER!!! BECAUSE IT IS, IN FACT, BUTT-NASTY!!!

Die Even MORE Hard!!!

I'm the only one excited about the prospect of another Die Hard movie, aren't I? Goddamnit, why must it always be lonely ol' me out there, supporting the past-their-prime action stars as they go for the easy paycheck by trotting out an old franchise? And the hell of it is, I'm not even kidding about being excited; I am sans irony over here. I cannot wait for this movie!!!

Has anyone seen the trailer? That one part where the car flips up in the air all WHOOSH and nearly lands on Bruce Willis and the guy from the Mac ads, but it doesn't because these two other cars zoom past them and the first car crashes down on them?!?!?!

That part RULES!!!

I can tell by your silence that you are unimpressed. Fine, that's fine, FINE!! I don't need anyone else to be excited about it for me to enjoy it's kick-assedness. Just don't come cryin' to me when Die Hard 4 wins the Academy Award for Most Awesome Movie Ever, a category they created specifically to honor this film's release.

So, in conclusion, Die Hard 4 has got me a little overstimulated. Also, I've had a lot of coffee today.

UPDATE: Medical Advice From You to Me

UPDATE: Frequent commenter and medical miracle-worker Scott H. has got the solution!!! This is it exactly, and now I know what to do about it. Thanks, dude; should have asked sooner. (I still haven't entirely ruled out alien involvement though. Trust no one.)

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For the last couple of years, it's felt like someone has taken a good-sized nail and hammered it into the heel of my left foot. Not all the time, of course; I'm not in constant pain or anything. It usually hurts the most when I get up and walk around after I've been off my feet for a while (i.e. in bed asleep, or sitting at my desk at work).

My question to you is: What's up with that?

The various theories I've floated are numerous, but I've got it narrowed down to these:

-It's some kind of bone spur. I don't, technically, know what defines a bone spur, but it just sounds like what it probably is. With that line of thinking in mind, it could also be a bone-splosion, a bone razor, or a bone hurts-a-lot.

-The heel-bone is actually broken because of that one time where I kicked a terrorist in the face. This is less likely to be the case because I have never actually kicked a terrorist in the face. Or have I???*

- Alien implant. Why's it always got to be in the neck, huh X-Files? If I were an alien and I was going to put one of my implants in a human, I'd totally go for the heel because who's going to look there? Nobody, that's who. I'm monitoring my own behavior for anything alien-y, so don't worry.

- Someone really did drive a nail into my heel and I just haven't noticed. It's possible, I guess. Certainly sounds like something my enemies would do to try to bring me down. That's right; I've got enemies; too many to mention.**

- It's because of ghosts. Okay, I don't really think that it's because of ghosts, but when I make lists of stuff, I like to have at least five things. Also, ghosts are way to classy to go for the heel. Unlike those aliens, who are all sons of bitches.

So, if anyone could either verify one of the above theories, or could tell me what's actually wrong with me, that would be swell. And if you could be quick about it, that would be swell too. I'm going to have to pee soon and I'd prefer not limp when I walk to the bathroom. Thanks!!!


*No

**I have no enemies; everyone thinks I totally rock

Where Have All The Psychos Gone?

Caught Zodiac yesterday. And by that, I mean I caught the movie called Zodiac, not the actual serial killer known as Zodiac, though you probably could have guessed that and, by me pointing it out, I've not-so-subtly implied that I think you're an idiot. Hmm... only three sentences in and this post has gone entirely to hell.

You know what, let me start over...

Actually, hang on, wouldn't it be cool if I really had caught the serial killer known as Zodiac? Like I was walking down the street and I overheard some guy talking on his cellphone like, "Oh yeah, I was totally the Zodiac killer back in the 70's; they all thought it was this other dude who died before they could arrest him but, nope, it was just ol' Carl Masterson the whole time. No, I haven't seen the movie, but that Jake Gyllenhaal is a dreamboat and I'll tell you that for free!" I'd sneak up behind him and give him a swift karate chop to the neck and, then BANG: I just caught me a serial killer. Where's my book deal? Can I get a side of interview on Larry King with that?

Yeah, that would be pretty sweet.

Wait, where the hell was I going with this...?

Oh, right, so caught Zodiac (the movie, not the...) and it got me to thinking; is it just me, or has there not been a good, old fashioned serial killer in the last fifteen years or so. I mean, the last one I can really remember was Jefferey Dahmer, and it was only after he was caught that anyone knew his story. There weren't any "City In Fear/ Hunt For A Madman"-type headlines with Dahmer, nor were there citywide curfews or any people calling tip-lines because they thought their neighbor seemed like the type of guy who could eat people.

My question is, why? Why aren't their serial killers any more? I mean, I know people still kill other people, obviously, and I know that people are saying George W. Bush is a serial killer, but that's only in the war crimes department, which fits only the loosest definition. It's just not the same. I'm talking about real serial killers; your Zodiacs and your Ted Bundys and your Night Stalkers. Guys (and it's always guys, isn't it?) like that.

My theory on all of this is that, what with your real-life versions of CSI and your Law and Order and whatnot, our collective crime-fighting skills have just gotten too good. Nobody can go on extended, thrill-kill murder sprees because we've got DNA analysis and cameras everywhere and, I think, magic (I'm not really up on my criminology these days). In effect, the "job" of serial-killing has been phased out by technology. As an alternative opinion, Girlfriend thinks it's because the idea of being a serial killer has become too "over done;" that people are looking for more interesting ways to commit their mass murders because they don't want to be branded as copycats or be stuck with the dreaded was-inspired-by-violent-movies label. The prime example of this would be, I guess, Ted "Unabomber" Kaczynski; sure he's a monster but, credit where it's due, he was a creative monster.

Anyway, just something I was thinking about. Anyone else got other theories on the subject? Oh, and, for the record, before I get two metric buttloads of hate mail, I AM NOT CONDONING THE ACT OF SERIAL KILLING, NOR AM I WISHING FOR A RETURN TO FORM IN THE "ARTS" OF SAME.

I'm glad they're gone, of course. I'm just curious as to where they went.

Worth Your Valuable Time

Most romantic comedies suck ass. They're usually too-cute, they often involve mistaken identities and you're more than likely going to see Meg Ryan jump around in her pajamas to a Motown-era oldie, even if she's not in the movie. But more than anything else, they're not real. Nobody behaves in rom-coms like normal people behave in real life; in fact, as a general rule, they behave like complete idiots.

Which is why it's refreshing to see a romantic comedy come along that gives that rule a healthy kick in the balls. Trust the Man is about two couples who are both having relationship troubles and how they try, fail, try again, and continue to keep trying to fix their messy lives. It's very funny, it's got a stellar cast (including Mulder!!!) and, above all, it's real. Or at least more real than anything that happened in Failure to Launch, which, no, I didn't technically see. However, my theory on that is that I don't need to actually see a car accident involving a drunk truck driver and a school bus full of handicapped kids to know the extent of the carnage.*

So, yes, Trust the Man: Worth your valuable time.

*In this analogy, Drunk Truck Driver = Matthew McConaughey and School Bus Full of Handicapped Kids = Sara Jessica Parker, both for obvious reasons.