Oh, and Happy New Year!!!

Movies I Have Seen (Holiday Edition)

Really funny, but it kind of helps if you've seen Walk The Line. I mean, it's not mandatory exactly, but it's kind of like how it really helps to have seen a porno before you get down in the sack with a fine lady. Or a dude. Whatever your preference. Oh, speaking of... like, fair warning, but there's a couple of instances of very prominently displayed "man junk" in this movie. And not particularly good-looking, well-groomed man junk either. Regular guy man junk. Not that I'm an authority or anything; I couldn't tell you what really, technically qualifies as good or not-good man junk because I never really look at that sort of thing. I'm just saying that I'm totally straight and that if you're man-junk shy, then be prepared to avert your eyes a couple of times. Otherwise, peep away. Which I didn't do, because I'm sooooo straight, which I believe I mentioned. Anyway, like I said, it's a fairly large bundle of laughs (the movie, I mean...); for one thing, John C. Reilly quite simply works his ass off in the lead role. They don't give out Oscars for quality comedy work (or at least they do so with such rarity that it's barely worth mentioning), but if they did, well, Mr. Reilly would have a shiny gold statue for his bookshelf after this. I guess he'll have to settle for a Golden Globe. Which is kind of like settling for a bag of diarrhea at an all-u-can-eat buffet. Or something... Look, just check out Walk Hard if it's the kind of movie that you'd think you would like. Otherwise, don't worry about it.

This is pretty much the most non-conformist Hollywood blockbuster I've seen in many, many moons. To that end, and without giving away too much of the plot (because I'm not a total knob), I can say that the previews are misleading as to the content of said film. There's some action, yes, and there's more than a heapin' helpin' of weirdo zombie vampires, but... but... that's like a fourth of the movie. For the first hour or so, it's really just Will Smith cruising around an abandoned, post-apocalyptic New York, slowly-yet-unactorly going insane. It's really quite moving, to tell you the truth, and the flashbacks to how shit went down only make it more so. Which is not to say that I Am Legend isn't exciting or scary; it totally is. There's this one part that had me clenching so tight, I had to buy the UA Eastchase theater a new seat because I sucked part of the one I was sitting in up my butt. However, to be totally honest, I thought the movie lost a little bit of steam towards the end. It didn't totally fuck itself over like Haute Tension or Signs or anything, but you know... things got a little weak as it wound to a close. Whatever though, it's still all good. You should for sure check it out, because they don't make zombie movies where the baseline emotion is "sad" much, so it's cool to see it when they do. Oh... one other thing... when we went to see it, the theater had the title condensed on the sign (to save space, I guess) so it read, "I'm Legend." For some reason, their use of a contraction made me laugh. Could just be a "me" thing, though.

Cute flick. Nothing super-special, and I seem to be the only one in my family who thought it was worth anything, but I'd recommend checking it if for no other reason than to see Kevin Smith in a movie that's not of his own making. He gives a really funny, actually-sensitive performance in this and... now that I think about it... it's probably the only reason I liked Catch and Release at all. Take that as you will, I guess. Oh and for the record, Jennifer Garner does not get naked in the movie at any point. I kind of knew that going in, but you still hope that maybe something got past Mr. Skin and you're the first one to catch because, honestly, who'd watch this otherwise. But to no avail.

It's been well-established on this blog that I'm just a huge theater queen. As such, I tend to be pretty picky when it comes to screen adaptations of popular Broadway shows. For example, I thought the movie version of RENT was like Hollywood taking a time machine back to 1996 and pissing all over Jonathan Larson's grave. Though I do understand that some people thought it was okay. My point is, most movie versions of musicals suck. Sometimes though, they don't. Case in point: Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd. Guys, no joke, it's just so fucking good. I'm usually not a huge fan of Burton's; he strikes me as someone that I probably would have had no choice but to bully in High School. But when somebody puts on show like he does with this... well, there's nothing to do but bow and scrape and genuflect and do whatever else he wants. Even some cuddling. And let's not forget the gore! Oh yes... there is blood. Gouts of it, like burst fire hydrants even... it pours from people's necks like a fire hose that's shaken off the men controlling it, drenching all those in it's path. In other words, it's awesomely bloody and if that's what you dig, then look no further. Johnny Depp should also be mentioned, as he owns the part of Sweeney and, even all grotty-ed up and homicidal, he's absolutely dreamy. Overall, one of the best movies of the year. No doubt.

A Portrait Of Me At Breakfast Time

In case anyone is curious (and frankly, I can't imagine a scenario where you wouldn't be), my breakfast this morning was:

1 plastic Ziploc bag of ham
1 can of Diet Coke

I ate this bag of ham while standing in my Mother's kitchen as I leafed through a People Magazine, stopping my studies into the life of Jamie Lynn Spears only to take a swig from my soda. I at one point thought about getting some mustard to slather on the ham slices, but I decided against that as it would be "too much work." I wore (and am still wearing) my new, baby-blue, snowman-adorned pajama pants, as well as a t-shirt that is now lightly stained with ham grease. My hair was a mess and my pits... they were unwashed.

For some reason, my family thinks I'm gross. Well, that's just fine. Because I think they're squares, man. Total squares.

Man, that ham was good. I think it's time for round two...

Post Xmas: The Busy-ing

Just popping in to say hello. Also, I wanted to at least acknowledge the current lack of posts, as well as the lack of posts to come. Things here in Texas are going well, but the kind of "well" that can also be translated as "extremely busy, with the families, and the dinners, and the old friends, and the drinking so much that you pass out under the tree like the drunkest present ever, and so on and so on and so on, into perpetuity." Compounding the issue, my step-brother is sleeping in the room where they have the computer (because Girlfriend and I are sleeping in his room). So that's making posting difficult, as I'm a night-dwelling blogger and, well, he's ten. Thus, he sleeps at night, and thus... ah, you see where I'm going with this.

Anyway, that's the happy-haps. We're off today to see a Japanese ice-sculpture exhibit (really), so I must away. Hope everyone has sufficiently recovered from their holiday festivities. Or if not, please feel free to contact me; I've got the numbers of some great egg nog rehabs.

I'll post when I can, yo! Miss me!!!

Happy Holidays, My Homies...

Going to be crazy-go-nuts busy for the rest of the day and, um, pretty much straight through to the week after Christmas. Finishing up this nightmare day at work, travels to Texas, the horrors of last-minute shopping, etc... I'm sure y'all understand. Soooo... let me just say, since I probably won't get the chance to say it again, I hope everyone has a great week chilling with your respective families, friends, fellow junkies at the methadone clinic, or whomever you've decided to spend the holidays with. Have a blast, drink lots, eat tons, and just generally get your festivities on like it ain't no thang.

Take care, kids, and I'll shout at ya post-Xmas...

C-DOG OUT!!!

Eating In Public

NOTE: I try to not use ZFS! as a medium to discuss all the wacky things I see during my daily subway rides (a lot of other bloggers do that already, and they probably do it better than I would), but sometimes shit happens that I can't just let slide all casual-like, especially when it can stand as an example to validate a larger point. Like this morning...

So I was on the D train, minding my own beeswax as a I listened to some music and tried to not think about all the work I have to do today, when I happened to glance across the car to the seats directly opposite me. Sitting there was this little Asian girl (with her family) and she was just absolutely going to town on a bunless, nude hot dog. Breakfast for her, I guess. No joke, she was eating the fucking thing like it was string cheese... peeling it, for lack of a better descriptor... and she had hot dog grease all over her face and bits of hot dog all over her jumper and the whole car was suddenly starting to smell like the men's room of a Nathan's on the 4th of July. Folks, it was gnarly; I know she's just a kid and I should cut her some slack, but... ugh... it seriously was somewhere on the Nasty Scale between that Gremlin getting blown up in the microwave in Gremlins, and that one part in Event Horizon with the eyeballs.

I bring this up because... well, actually for two reasons. One, it was icky and I like to share icky things with all of you (obviously). And two, it helps me to illustrate a long-held belief of mine, and that belief is this:

People Shouldn't Eat In Public.

Usually I like to qualify bold statements by saying, "maybe that's just me," or, "in my opinion, of course," but no... NO... not this time. People should not be allowed to eat in public. And no, smartass, I'm not talking about restaurants; everyone's eating in restaurants, or they're being paid to be there, so that's the exception to the rule.

What I'm talking about here is eating in public-public; on trains, on park benches, in meetings, basically anywhere that also includes other people who are not eating and, hey, maybe don't want to see you shove fistfulls of food into your gaping maw. Because I live in New York, the place that I encounter this phenomenon most often is, naturally, on the subways. I've seen people chowing down on full-on, five-course meals out of fucking Tupperware containers before and... ew, it's just weird.

I mean, have you ever watched someone eat? Like, actually looked at them as they open their mouths, bring a forkful of food to it, place it in there, start chewing, wipe their mouths, keep chewing, and then swallow it all down, only to begin the process again? It's horrifying. When you do it in public, it's like you're forcing people to watch a Herschell Gordon Lewis retrospective, one bite at a time; I'm not kidding about this, humans are so gross. Not to mention the fact that, when people are eating in public, it's never just like a candy bar or an apple or something inoffensive like that. No, it's always some fucking garlic-slathered, stinky cheese-covered, ethnically-spiced, pipin' hot monstrosity that you have to wash the smell of out of your hair later like it was cigarette smoke. It's disgusting and I'm just so sick of it and all of you can just got to hell! BASTARDS!!!

AAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!

Whew... that feels better. Man, I got really angry about that for no reason. Still though... Fuckin' little kids and their hot dogs. Bleh.

In Case Anyone Is Curious As To How Many Five-Year-Olds I Could Take In A Fight...

22

Find a Ultrasound school near you

NOTE: ZFS! does not endorse fighting five-year-olds, or attending Ultrasound schools. ZFS! also doesn't know what an Ultrasound school is and is quite frankly a little scared to find out.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

The Dark Knight



I'm so amped for this movie, it's all I can do to not firehose people with jets of excited pee every time I think about it. And I think about it all the time, so that should tell you something about my super-human powers of restraint. Seriously, how fucking awesome is Heath Ledger? You got to love a guy who can bust out with Gay Cowboy one year, and then Crazy, Purple Clown-Villain the next, all while bagging Michelle Williams and looking like a million dollar version of the greasy guy who asks me for change every morning on the subway. He's like the Swiss-Army knife of actors and I kind of want to slow dance with him to a James Blunt song.

The Hottie and The Nottie



Um, what? I don't know what this movie is about (nor do I care), but I can honestly say that I'd rather have my nuts bit off by a shark during a plane crash over the killing fields of Darfur than sit through a screening of this. Side Note: Wouldn't the sight of Paris Hilton getting crushed in that machine-press thingy that they used to kill The Terminator be like the most satisfying thing you've ever seen? I think it would feel like taking a dump while drinking a bottle of expensive beer as your favorite song played in the background.

Untraceable



I've seen a lot of stupid posters in my time, but... yeesh... I don't know, this might be the stupidest ever. Are they really trying to make the hand icon a thing of terror? Really??? What's their next move, the little, yellow AOL guy raping someone?

You Don't Mess With The Zohan



Adam Sandler, I don't get your career. You started off awesome (Happy Gilmore still holds up surprisingly well), and then you did some good dramatic stuff too, and now... you're... doing... a movie about a hair-dresser assassin? Ooookay, well, like it's your life and everything, but you really should know that we all prefer you in a hockey jersey doing funny voices. This weird, "being a gay-baiting fireman, then dressing up like a Jersey guido's stylist" thing you're doing isn't really working for all of us that bought "They're All Gonna Laugh At You." Just FYI.

Flakes



There was this really hot girl on the train this morning and she was standing like right in front of me and I practically snapped my retinas trying to not look at her, lest she think I was the creepy sort. I mean, I am the creepy sort, but I don't like to advertise it, especially not so early in the AM. Anyway, I get kind of the same feeling from this poster, specifically from the poster's inclusion of the lovely Zooey Deschanel. I'm pretty sure that if I start looking at this, I'll never stop and then the movie studio's slapping me with a restraining order and everything will get all awkward when Zooey and I have our first date. That's right, Zooey Deschanel is going to be my girlfriend! And I'm creepy!!!

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Seeing the poster for this is like getting a full-body, hot-oil massage for my soul. And if you disagree, then we have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Ever.

Award-Winning Topical Commentary

She shouldn't be having a baby! She's sixteen! What's wrong with this family! They're all crazy! If you didn't know, her sister is Britney Spears! Who is also known for doing crazy things! This one time, she hit a car with an umbrella and then shaved off all her hair! No, actually, it was the other way around! I guess it doesn't matter; she's crazy! Just like her sister, who's having a baby at sixteen!

NOTE: Please send all Pulitzer Prizes to the email address linked on my profile! THANKS!!!

I Was Racially Profiled

Well, sort of.

Okay, not really, but I wanted an attention-grabbing headline for this post that was at least somewhat related to the topic and that's what I came up with. Cut me some slack, I'm so hungover it feels like I have brain damage.

Anyway, here's what happened...

There's this stuff called Licor 43 that a friend of Girlfriend and I really digs. It's a very sweet, Spanish liqueur, it tastes good with milk (really!) and it looks exactly like this:

The thing that you need to know about Licor 43 is that it is, apparently, quite popular with the Latino community. No, I don't know why. I guess because it's from Spain, or whatever. Not the point; just know that it's popular with Latinos, because it's going to come up again in a minute.

So I'm out yesterday looking for a bottle for us to give to our friend as a present and I had this exact conversation with the employee at the liquor store by my job...

NOTE: For maximum effect, please imagine the liquor store clerk's lines being said in a thick, Speedy-Gonzales-by-way-of-Death-Row-Records accent.

C-dog: Excuse me, do you guys carry Licor 43?

Liquor Store Clerk: We do, but we're all out.

C-dog: Ah, I see. Do you know where I can find any in the area?

LSC: Some stores have it and some stores don't.

C-dog: Okay, well thanks...

LSC: What's a white boy like you want with the 43?

(a shocked pause)

C-dog: It's... uh... for a friend.

(another pause while he considers this)

LSC: Oh... okay...

So yeah... I feel like I really understand the minority experience in America now. Except, you know, not at all.

Car Wash Nuttiness

This was described on the YouTube as "Old Man Goes Nuts In Car Wash." I can't really speak to the age of the driver, but the "goes nuts" part is certainly accurate. Dude, the car wash didn't do anything to you. It was just trying to clean off your automobile, as is it's want. And then you had to get all buckwild on it's helpful, robot ass:

For shame, driver-man. For shame.

NOTE: We're just going to assume that everyone made it out alive. Though the people in that mini-van probably shat themselves.

The Religious Clowns Of Texas: A Horribly Unsetteling Pictorial

NOTE: When I can't think of a post topic, I tend to just wander around the internet, keeping my eyes peeled for interesting ideas. Occasionally, this leads me to places that inspire some of what I consider to be my best work. Other times, it will lead me to places like Clowns For Hire .com, which is a fate worse than what happened to those kids in Hostel. Did you know that Clowns For Hire .com allows you to search through their database of clowns based on your own specific criteria and location? It's true... Here's what came up for "Clown Ministry" and "Texas:"

2ND NOTE: Names have been removed because I don't want a bunch of pissed-off, Google-happy clowns coming after me with hunting knives.

Clown #1



If you ever wonder what your deadbeat father has been up to ever since he ran out on your family when you were nine, well... let's just say that Daddy drinks and there's just not a whole lot of options out there for alcoholics who only like to work three hours a day and have a trick knee that acts up at even the mention of manual labor. It's pretty much either throwing on a slap-dash clown suit and giving slurred readings from the Bible, or dying from exposure behind the dumpster of the local Arby's while digging around for half-eaten Beef N' Cheddars. Not much of a choice really, although he could sure as shit go for a Beef N' Cheddar right about now.

Serial Killer Potential: 2 out of 5 (He's much to lazy to be any sort of tangible threat, but then again, he gets so angry when he's been drinking...)

Clown #2



There's not a doubt in my mind that he ate that bunny. Poor... poor... bunny. Never stood a chance, I guess. Because when it needs to feed, nothing will stand in it's way. The real problem with this one is that it looks almost too much like the average, national concept of a clown. It's like when you see a tranny that's trying so hard to look like a real woman, it becomes instantly clear that it's a dude in a dress who's not above a few operations to achieve his twisted vision of the feminine ideal. It's the same thing with our boy up top, except in this equation you swap "woman" with "clown" and "dude in a dress" with "carnivorous minion of Satan."

Serial Killer Potential: 5 out of 5 (Chances are, it's killing right now)

Clown #3



You're just not trying. I'm sure it's really sad being almost 40 and single, but there's got to be better ways to channel your energy than this. You're basically painting your face with your own desperation and desire for love and it's clearly making all the kids really, really uncomfortable.

Serial Killer Potential: 0 out of 5 (Eating a Whole Carton of Ben and Jerry's, Then Crying Self To Sleep Potential: 5 out of 5)

Clown #4



Yikes. Okay, imagine you're walking through a spooky cornfield late at night, the moon overhead your only guide, and you stumble upon this atrocity hanging off an old, wooden cross. You're a little freaked out at first, but then you're like, "Psh... whatever, it's just a scarecrow. Ain't no thang." And you keep walking. But then you hear a noise. You turn around and everything appears to be as it was... but... isn't that scarecrow a little closer than it should be? I mean, you were walking away from it. Shouldn't it be farther back. That's when it's head begins to move. It's dead, painted eyes rise up to meet yours. Your blood runs cold. Suddenly, it's off the cross and holding you by the the throat! You hear someone screaming and, as your face is slowly eaten off, you realize that that someone is you.

Wouldn't that be sooooo scary???

Serial Killer Potential: 6 out of 5 (It gets an extra point for being an actual, walking nightmare)

Clown #5

JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US JOIN US

Serial Killer Potential: 5 out of 5 (I guess that's accurate, but how do you really judge pure evil; I mean, I could write a whole thesis on all the different ways that this picture is frightening, and that's not even taking into consideration what happened to the photographer after the shutter clicked... it's just too awful to think about...)

Hey, Macy's...

That's right, I just MS Paint-ed you the finger! Why? Because every time I go to you looking for presents, you never have what I want. Sure, you've got a million different pots-n'-pans sets, and, true, you've got a bunch of gold jewelry that would make my girlfriend look like a mafia bride... but do you have a red mixing bowl with a pouring spout? Do you have a stove-top percolator that's not electric and not priced somewhere in the "weapons-grade plutonium" rage?

Don't worry, I'll answer for you: No. No you do not. You've got, as far as I'm concerned, fuck all when it comes to what I'm after. And that makes you a bunch of bastards.

Here's what else you've got, since we're on the subject...

-Lots of people who shouldn't be allowed in public with out a handler and/or a surgical mask so they'll stop breathing on my neck.

-A staff that's very unhelpful. I asked a girl to help me find one of the aforementioned products and she gave me a look that said, "If there weren't cameras here, I'd stab you in the eye with one of my ghetto nails and then you'd die from glitter poisoning." Seriously, who puts glitter on their fingernails. And I'm not talking like nail polish that's got a little bit of glitter mixed into it so it looks all shiny and happy. We're talking big wads of glitter, so it looks like a pre-K art project done by the slow student who knows well the taste of Elmer's glue.

-Escalators that don't work. I'm fat, cranky, and I don't like walking up stairs that are supposed to be moving my lard-butt around. It makes me crankier and, oddly enough, fatter. Go figure.

-A complete disregard for my needs. We covered that already, but I'm still very angry about it. Well, not "angry" so much as "mildly put-out." And not even that, really, because it happened like three hours ago and I'm kinda over it. Honestly, I was just looking for an excuse to draw a crude middle finger on a picture of a billion-dollar retail outlet.

-MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!!!

Arbitrary Rulings 9

"More Adventurous" by Rilo Kiley - I bought this album a million years ago (or like 2004, whatever) and subsequently lost it or sold it or something and I've missed it ever since, yet never bothered to replace it until this past week. My father and I were killing time in a used CD store and I just happened to stumble across an old, not-too-beat-up copy of it for the low, low price of 6.99$. Quite the steal, especially since I used my cunning and guile to get my father to buy it for me. Cunning and guile, in this particular scenario, translates into me going, "Hey Dad, you mind picking this up for me," and him going, "Yeah, that's fine." Just in case you were wondering exactly what sort of cunning and guile I have at my disposal. Anyway, I've been playing "More Adventurous" on a loop ever since then like a crazy person and it's been awesome, awesome, and yes, though you thought it wasn't possible, even more awesome. What's weird though is that I goofed up a little when I put in on my iPod and, for some reason, the album starts with the last song and plays on to the first. Basically, I uploaded it backwards. Not sure how I did that, but I guess it doesn't matter. Oh, and as is the prerequisite by order of Indie Law for any post/article/mention of or about Rilo Kiley, let me once again state for the record that Jenny Lewis is just ridiculously attractive.

Turbulence - Just so not a fan. There was this one part, towards the end of my flight back into New York, where it felt like they'd secretly switched our plane with a car affixed to the craziest roller coaster track ever devised in the sick mind of an over-caffeinated engineer who's really into making people vomit. I usually have a gut forged from cast-iron, but even I was feeling a bit rumbly by the time we hit the ground. And the girl next to me looked like a junkie about midway though the withdrawls. Because of the turbulence, I mean... not because I think she was actually a junkie. Although she could have been, I guess; sometimes it's really hard to tell because a few of them are really good at hiding it. Angelina Jolie, for example. Oh, and if any of Ms. Jolie's legal team happen to stumble upon this blog while obsessively Googling their client, please keep in mind that the previous statement was a classic example of "just kidding." Not that you'd want to sue me anyway; I'm worth about 1.95$ give or a take a nickel. But I digress... so, yeah, turbulence. It's lame.

The Bagels That My Office Gets Every Monday Morning - Unnecessarily bad. They taste like the secret ingredient is ground-up dodgeballs from my 7th grade gym class and, for some reason, they're always ice cold (which is just weird). I mean, okay, I'm never one to scoff at free food... eating off the kindness of others is pretty much how I've not died all these years... but, I don't know, I just think that if you're a bazillion dollar company that farts money every time it moves, you can maybe afford to spend an extra few bills on chow that don't taste like athletic equipment. Call me crazy, call me a revolutionary, call me the handsomest man you've ever met, but I don't think that's too much to ask. Which is not to say that I'm going to abstain for eating them. Please. They'd have to have poop on them for that to happen. And even then, I might just try to eat around the afflicted areas. Not kidding, I'm gross!

Blogging While Drunk - Heh... yeah, I really don't remember posting that last night. I also don't remember doing "The Chicken Dance" in my underwear on 3rd avenue, but if CNN is to be believed then apparently I had quite an active evening. Well, at the very least, it's nice to finally snip away those final few tatters of dignity. They were always snagging on everything!!! Also, would anyone like to purchase a seemingly-healthy, good-sized, dairy cow? Because I bought one last night (post-Chicken Dance, I guess) and it's really starting to make my apartment smell. The milk's delicious, though, especially straight for the source. Teats!!!

Santa Claus - He's always been cool by me, at least as far as fictional characters are concerned. Free toys, snazzy suit, friendly demeanor, probably could put in a good word for you with Jesus, especially if you keep making good with the cookies... what's not to like? I guess the only part of Santa that's always struck me as a tad strange is the whole, "breaking into your house," thing. It's not like he steals anything, of course, but still... if you want to come in and leave some shit, just knock on the door. Dude, I'll let you in. We can even chill for a bit and power-chug some eggnog. And, yeah, I know you've got a ton of places to be on Christmas Eve, but it's not like you don't have control over Time and Space anyway; that's how you're able to hit all those houses in one night. You could slow down the universe for a few minutes to hang with the C-dog who, I'd like to point out, never stopped believing in your fat, jolly ass. Don't make me beg, Elf-dude. 'Tis the season for doing what I want you to do.

And We're Drunk... I Mean *Back*

So I'm once again firmly ensconced in the warm, glowing, warming glow that is Brooklyn, NY. At least for the next seven days. Then it's more packing, more hustling to the airport, more flights across the country, more stop-overs in cities that I'd never visit otherwise, despite the fact I have relatives that live there (just kidding, ZFS! loves you, Atlanta), more time spent in Texas, more time with my family, whom I've just spent an inordinate amount of time with while doing all manner of funeral-related crapola, etc...

In short, big fun lies ahead. And I say that with only the barest trace of weary resignation.

I'll level with you, kids... C-dog isn't having the best Holiday Season. I try to be Mr. Happy-G0-Lucky, I try to be the dancing clown juggling puppies and Muppets, I try to never let them see me sweat, as it were, but this year... yikes, I don't know. Things is rough.

There's the whole "Grandmother dying," thing, of course. Major bummer. But there's other stuff, too... scary stuff. Stuff that involves werewolves and the government, and some terrifying secrets that I've learned about the true contents of Snickers bars and...

Well, I've already said too much.

The point is, this blog is just about the only respite that I've got; the only rock of silliness that I can stand firmly upon amongst all the real-life seriousness that surrounds me. And rest assured, faithful, pleasant, good-looking readers, as I stand here on this rock, proudly and with unnaturally attractive features, as God (or whomever) as my witness... know... know... that I'll be mooning all that can see me.

Because that's how C-dog rolls. More tomorrow, kids; good things begin anew!

NOTE: If this doesn't make sense, blame...



...because I've had an awful lot of it this evening. Drinking wonderfully kills the pain!!!

A Provocatively Named Lotion

(Smooth jazz plays on the Hi-Fi. The room smells of exotically scented oils and the sheets are only the finest of silk. My gold chains clink together seductively as we lay upon my heart-shaped bed.)

Oooh... yeah... are you ready for it? Because I don't think you are? I just don't know if you can handle it. You think you can? Well, if you're sure. And if you're positive you're not going to sue. Because I'm gonna take my Velvet Tuberose and smear it aaaaalllll over you! Bow-chicka-wow-wow... mmm...uuhh... oh yes, you like my Velvet Tuberose, don't you? You think it's the finest Velvet Tuberose you've ever seen. Well you're right. My Velvet Tuberose is the finest in all the lands. In all the galaxies, even. Not even Star Wars had a Velvet Tuberose like mine. Oooooh... ahhhh... Velvet Tuberose sounds like a creepy innuendo for a guy's wang... oh yeah... I've got the mind of thirteen year old... oooh... Velvet Tuberose... hot n' saucy... because it's a thing that sounds like another thing that could possibly be misconstrued as dirty... uuuughggh... ooooh... neat-o... and... um... yeah... sexy, sexy, and also, sexy... VELVET TUBEROSE!!!

NOTE: I don't know. But I've been giggling about Velvet Tuberose since we went into Bath & Bodyworks last week. Because maturity's for squares and housewives!!!

2ND NOTE: BOOBIES!!!

3RD NOTE: Flying back to NYC today (thanks, weather!). Wish me lots and lots o' luck.

The Future Me Is Awesome

Apparently, MSNBC is running "News of the Weird" stories about me from the future.

Man, that's going to be one hell of a day. And it's good to see that nothing will have changed in 40 years. Now I just got to figure out why in the fuck I'm going to be in Berlin...

Oh, dude, I hope it's for the sausage. Because I loves me some sausage. And vodka. But you probably gathered that from the article.

Forecast For A Funeral

Seriously, it could not be crappier outside today. Which, I guess, is appropriate, considering the occasion. Still though, yuck. Not going to make the outdoor portion of our service just a whole lot of fun. Not that it would have been anyways, of course. The clown had to cancel due to previous commitments. Lousy clown.

Okay, I Lied...

Apparently, blogging is a lot like smoking unfiltered Lucky Strikes. Sure, you can try to stop for a little while; you can pretend you're happy chewing your way through pack after pack of Juicy Fruit, telling everyone that quitting is easy and you don't know what all those whiners were on about, but... but... after a little while, the need shows up. It gnaws at you, feels like a mess of cockroaches are swarming just beneath the surface of your skin. Your hands shake, you bowels clench, your brain begins to play tricks on you ("Hey Dad, is great to blog you!. I mean 'see' you. How bloggy of me. Blog... blog... bloggity blog blogblogblogblogblog!!!!"). Soon, you're overtaken by the urge to rip open a fresh packet of blogs and light one up, to inhale it's heady, dangerous smoke, to exhale it with a level of pleasure unmatched by even the moistest and most acrobatic of sexual encounters.

The blogging addiction claims another victim, a fact that will eventually lead to my death from whatever the equivalent of lung cancer would be in this painfully extended metaphor.

So... yes, the reason I was on a "bloggin' break," as it were, is that I'm currently home in the great state of Texas; my grandmother died over the weekend and I'm hear to attend the funeral, obviously, but also to hang out with my father who's having a bit of a difficult time coping with the fact that he's now the oldest and "adultiest" member of that side of the family. Because we're Davis men, our version of coping mainly consists of drinking a lot and eating as many Whataburgers as we can fit into our persons before our stomachs explode like that guy in the beginning of Seven, but hey... as Mr. Lennon said, whatever gets you through the night.

No joke, it's been a rough couple of days... I don't handle change well in general and you can extrapolate that out to it's logical conclusion with regards to how well I'd handle the death of a loved one. We were close, my Grandmother and I, and her dying is, to put it as mildly as one possibly can, a total bummer. Which is not to say that it was unexpected or anything... we knew it was coming and we'd readied ourselves to weather the storm, but still. Bracing for the impact doesn't necessarily make getting run over by a garbage truck any easier.

Anyway, that's what's going on in my life at the moment. Big fun, big fun. Knowing me, I'll probably post some more this week (even though I said I wasn't going to, which we discussed), but I am going to be pretty busy, so who knows? Certainly not me. So I guess I'll just say that I'll see you again when the need comes back.

Until then, much love from Texas.

Hey kids...

Just wanted to let everyone know that things are going to be pretty quiet around ZFS! for the next few days. I've got to go to Texas for a little bit to deal with some family stuff and I already know I'm not going to have the time or the inclination to blog while I'm there. No worries though. We'll pick it up right where we left off (fart jokes and more fart jokes) when I get back. Love y'all. Be good.

-C

Another Song By The National, Just To Set The Weekend's Mood...

I've listened to this particular song at least 2,000 times in the last three days. If it means what I think it means, then it suits my current mental state quite well. If it's actually about, say, apartheid or why it's bad to pick your nose when people are looking... well, then forget I said anything. Still a great song.

Worth Your Valuable Time

I think everyone has already figured out that this is one of the best movies of the year, but just in case you hadn't heard the word, I thought I'd pass it along. It's just crazy-good... in general, yes, but specifically because of Javier Bardem, who's so fucking scary in this, he's started popping up in Freddy Krueger's nightmares.

Go see it, for reals. Skip work if you have to. Or, you know, something more reasonable.

NOTE: This post is a replacement for the brilliant one I had originally written regarding this story. Turns out, the whole thing wasn't true and, thus, Donald Trump has yet again found a way to fuck up my blog. TRUUUUUMP!!!

The Glass Is Half...Deadly

NOTE: Though it's all true, this post exists almost exclusively because the above title has had me chuckling to myself like an asshole since about seven o'clock this morning.

So, last night, during the course of our post-dinner kitchen clean-up duties, a rocks glass fell from our dish drainer to the kitchen floor. And it went... B-O-O-M!!! Like, it was the kind of glass-splosion that speaks to a deep, critical manufacturing flaw. Scary. The glass, before it leaped to it's death, looked a lot like this:



And here's a fairly accurate depiction of our kitchen floor immediately afterwards:



Seriously... in all my 27 years of being a clumsy dude, of working in restaurants where dishware breaks at an alarming rate, of being so handsome that mirrors shatter when I gaze into them for too long (it's not because I'm ugly, it's not!!!), I have never seen a glass break in such a horrifyingly spectacular fashion. The only thing that comes close is the time that I tripped on a woman's coat while carrying a tray full of wine glasses and the entire smoking section had to be shut down because everyone was covered in shards and Merlot. But last night... that was worse because, well, frankly we're talking about my kitchen here, which is much more important than a grotty smoking section in an Outback in Arlington, TX. I mean, my kitchen is a place where I'm frequently barefoot and where I really don't feel like reenacting the "Shoot the glass" scene from Die Hard every time I want some orange juice. And, yes, I know I could just put on some shoes. So not the point.

Not to mention the fact that we have a cat who, last time I checked, has four feet that are on the ground like all the time. He's got twice as many problems when it comes to glass splinters and he never did nothing to nobody (well, the mice community might say otherwise, but they don't count).

Anyway, I've very distressed about this, as you can tell, and I'd really appreciate your love and support in this, my time of need. Or whatever. Broken glass sucks balls.

More later.

24 Hours To Live

NOTE: Of all the many, varied, too-personal, borderline-offensive questions that I get asked by my readers on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis, the one that most frequently comes up is this: "Goddamn, C-dog, your ass is so fine, you could dance in the background of a rap video. How'd you get so thick back there, gurl?" Well, sadly, I can't answer that question... some things, a guy's just got to keep to himself. Though I am an oddly-pleasant combination of freaked out and flattered, don't get me wrong. However, since I won't answer the most-asked question in ZFS! history, I think it's only fair that I answer the 2nd most-asked question that seems to be on all of your minds. And that questions is...

Hey C-dog, What Would You Do If You Only Had 24 Hours To Live

Good question, readers! And not creepy at all... which... um... what, do I not turn you on anymore? I mean, a guy likes a *little* bit of sexual harassment, am I right? I'm just saying that it'd be nice to feel appreciated as a piece of meat every once in a while. Jerks.

But anyway, how would I spend my last 24 hours on Earth? Let me break it down for you.

Hours 1-11: Sleep late.
Hour 12: Eat twenty packages of bacon, washed down with pint glass after pint glass of the finest whiskey that I can find in whatever liquor store happens to be closest. If there isn't a liquor store nearby, I'll just drink whatever I can find under the sink that looks tempting.
Hour 13: A nice BM, followed by a hot shower during which I'll reflect on all the good times I've had having BMs and hot showers in my life.
Hour 14: Another package of bacon, this one washed down with some Dr. Pepper (for energy) and a delicious, wholesome glass of milk. Okay, maybe a little more of whatever was in that aerosol can I found. Pledge, is it? Ah, Pledge is tasty.
Hour 15: Listen to the entire "White Album" by the Beatles. Except for that one song that's got Yoko shrieking in the background. Like I need to listen to that right before I die. Please.
Hour 16: Another BM (all that bacon, ya know).
Hour 17: Grant an audience with all my legions of friends, family, and assorted fans. Listen patiently while they tearfully recount all the many ways I've touched their lives, hearts, and bank accounts without their knowledge. Another spray of Pledge, just to keep me "on" in front of company.
Hour 18: Quick power-nap, followed by a few rounds of Tetris.
Hour 19: Getting pretty close to the end now. Need to make everything count... might want to leave the apartment. A couple of more sprays of Pledge, and I'm off, out into the great, bustling city of New York!!!
Hour 20: Wait on the fucking R train. Should have gone out during peak-hours, because this is really cutting into my excursion time.
Hour 21: Titty bar.
Hour 22: Thrown out of titty bar for accidentally spraying one of the dancers in the face with Pledge. Wander around the city for a little bit, looking for a hot dog stand.
Hour 23: Find hot dog stand. Eat all the hot dogs. Contemplate my impending death as I slather on the mustard. Well, I think, this is it. Been a good ride. Had some laughs, gave people the overwhelming joy of knowing the goodness and the glory that is me... yep, life has been sweet. I'm ready to go.
Hour 24: Cry, gnash my teeth, beg for a few hours more, poop myself, claw at the pants leg of the hot dog vendor as I plead with him to help me. He refuses, so I give him twenty bucks to let me borrow his hat so I can sneak back into the titty bar.
Hour 25: Head explodes, spattering the same dancer that I'd previously gotten with the Pledge. Irony!

Cheap Beer Is Hilarious: A Pictorial

NOTE: This is a companion piece to my previous post regarding the hilarity of cheap booze. It should also be noted that I have not tried any of these myself (save for one), so any comments on the taste of said beers will be merely conjecture. Although I think it's safe to say that they all mostly taste like butt crack.

Bud Light & Clamato Juice



Finally! Ha ha... no, seriously, you know how when you see someone puke, your throat starts to convulse and you suddenly get the urge to puke yourself, especially if you catch a whiff of the other guy's spew? Well Budweiser took that feeling and made it into a drink. With clam juice, which is really the problem here. I've had a Bloody Beer before (it's exactly what it sounds like), and they're just fine if you like that sort of thing, but when you add seafood drippings into the mix... I don't know, man. That just sounds like an all-expensive-paid vacation to Diarrheaville, with stop-overs in the Bright Red Vomit Islands and a nine-hour layover in Pleasekillmeistan.

Burger Beer



Now, sure, my brain knows there's no way that this could actually be a beer that tastes like a cheeseburger. That's crazy talk. But my heart... well, my heart is a foolish organ; it really wants to believe that somewhere, some crazy fool has made a beer that's got flame-grilled tasting notes, with a juicy, meaty finish, and maybe just a hint of mustard and pickles. My heart dares to dream of such a gorgeous reality; maybe one day, one magical day, it will come true. God, I'm crying now... damn it... it's just too beautiful...

Lucky Beer



Nope, not buying it. Anything that so boldly proclaims to be lucky is obviously a lie. Buying this beer for it's luck-giving properties would be like buying X-ray specs out of the back of a comic book because you really believe it will help you look at ladies boobies in public. Nothing but heartache, sorrow, and whatever would be the beer-related equivalent of having a woman tell you to stop staring at her breasts are all that await you with this stuff, and we know that's got to be true. Do the makers of Lucky Beer think we're idiots??? I mean, at the very least, they could have floated a rabbit's foot in there or something. Though I guess some people might find that to be a bit of a turn-off. Whatever, the Lucky Beer brewers are assholes.

Lone Star Beer



Wooo!!! Texas!!! WOOOO!!! This here is what we call "training wheels" for all the would-be alcoholics in my home state who are looking for a place to get their start. It's actually not that bad as far as beers go; it's certainly better than Coors (which tastes like hobo pee). My favorite part is, on the bottom of the can, where it says "Pure. Texan. Beer." As if people would think that a beer called "Lone Star" would come from Michigan, say, or Hawaii. But that's Texas for you... we're in-your-face when it comes to expressions of state loyalty. Which is why I got the ass tattoo.

7-11 Beer

Looking at this picture gives me skank-chills. There's just no way that this was any good, which I guess is probably why they stopped making it (it was last sold back in the late 70's, early 80's, apparently). Think about this for a second, though... this is a generic-brand beer, made specifically for a store that was, at the time, not exactly known for it's quality of products. Going out to one of the gas pumps and drinking straight from the nozzle would probably have been a much more satisfying experience, at least taste-wise. I'm pretty sure the only people who ever bought 7-11 Beer were deadbeat dads, heroin addicts looking for something to wash the taste of junk out of their mouths, and... uh... me, had I been alive when it was on the market. What can I say, I love a bargain.

"Fake Empire" by The National

It's freezing in New York right now, I've got a ton of work to do, and I'm kind of gloomy due to a bunch of bullshit that's not interesting to anyone at all. This situation, of course, calls for chilly, gloomy music to fit my mood (and yours, I assume) whilst I input invoices and wish that I had something other than a Beef flavored Cup Noodles for lunch:

This band is totally the shit, by the way. Their most recent album, "The Boxer," makes me want to go back and time and threaten my ten-year-old self into taking music lessons.

Oh, I lied, I also have crackers. Yum... crackers...

NOTE: This version, taken (obviously) from a Late Show broadcast, is the only version of this song that I could find where the audio wasn't ass-y. At the end of the clip, Letterman is carrying around the Super Bowl trophy while he greets the band, which I find amusing.

What's Wrong With Me?

-I can't accept the fact that it isn't, nor will it ever be, "opposite day."

-Thumbs the size of French baguettes.

-I'm too cool for school. Also, my SAT scores are unacceptably low.

-Nothing the love of a good woman won't fix. Or, barring that, a gift certificate to whatever liquor store is closest to my apartment.

-People's toes gross me out; this wouldn't be a problem, except for my enormous foot fetish.

-Gout.

-I'm haunted by the demons of my past. Also, by the ghost of John Wilkes Boothe. He's not a very nice man.

-There's not enough deodorant in the world to cover up the smell of my holiday ham-sweats.

-It's kind of a long story and, to be honest, it's not one that I really feel like relating in it's entirety here. But the gist of it is this: During the party at the home of a mutual friend, I accidentally... accidentally... punched Jesus in the face. See, there was this apple-bobbing contest that sort of went awry... doesn't matter...look, guys, he's really mad at me and he's been making all these veiled threats about how he, " should probably just blow this fuckin' planet up if everyone on it is an asshole like you, C-dog." So, like, if Armageddon happens sometime soon, it's probably totally my fault. My bad; this one's all on me.

-Brain farts. Literally.

Mining My Past For Blog Fodder

NOTE: This is a new, regular(ish) feature on ZFS! and it will mostly involve me talking about crap that's happened to me in the past. The stories that I tell in this series of posts will be the most interesting stories you've ever heard and, as an added bonus, they'll make you feel like you've really gotten close to me, C-dog, which is what we all know you really want. We're making connections here, kids; building bridges to a brighter tomorrow where we're all best friends who hang out all the time and have hilarious adventures involving mistaken identities and hunting lodges with multiple entrances and exits like we're in a French farce.

Do enjoy (as if there was any doubt)...

The Coldest Times Of My Life, or, "Sir, I'm Afraid The Balls Have Frozen Off The Brass Monkey... And Yours Are Next!"

1. I had been working at a video store in the East Village and, on this particular day, during my shift the temperature had dropped about thirty degrees. When I, as well as my co-worker Chuck, left the store at 1am, it was about ten degrees outside. Neither of us were dressed appropriately for the weather and, thus, we were about to have one of the more miserable times either of us had ever experienced, even though we were both totally worldly and toughened by life in general. At the time, Chuck and I lived off the same stop on the G train, which, if you're unfamiliar, is the worst train line in all of the NYC subway system. It's the only line that doesn't go into Manhattan (it's route is Brooklyn to Queens) and, making matters worse, it's been the focus of some sort of mysterious, ill-defined construction project for at least the last four years, though probably much longer. Consequently, the trains don't run in a timely fashion, particularly after midnight. So on the night in question, Chuck and I took the L train to the Metropolitan stop and transferred to the G train platform. And there we stood, with only a windbreaker for him and a light hoodie for me, winter weather protection-wise, for about two hours. Keep in mind, there was icy-cold air billowing down into the station from the street above, as well as seeping in from the tunnels on either side of us. I'm sure that this wasn't the case, but I remember us as being the only people down there for the entire duration. I also remember, and this I know is true, that we were both shaking from the cold and that we could barely carry on a conversation because our respective teeth were chattering too hard to allow our mouths to form words. I can't speak for him, but I personally was filled with thoughts that ran somewhere along the lines of, "Just why in the hell would a person want to live in a place where he was forced to put up with shit like this?" Finally, though, after we'd started to fear that we might lose some of our toes, the train came. In a rare stroke of luck, it was a G train in which the heater was actually working. We thawed out on the ride to our stop and were no worse the wear the next day, though you can be sure we both brought coats to work... just in case the situation ever repeated itself.

2. In the last apartment that I lived in, my room had no windows and no air conditioning. In fact, the only source of ventilation was a smallish pipe, covered by a grate, that ran from the top corner of my room to the outside of the building. While it technically let fresh air in, it was so small that it hardly made any sort of difference. The room was, in a word, miserable. Particularly in the summer, when it would feel like I was living in one of those red bags that Domino's uses to keep their pizzas hot while in transit. During the winter, though, the room was fairly manageable; because it was so well insulated (or cut off from the outside, rather), I never even had to have a heavy blanket; a sheet was enough to keep me warm during the coldest of nights. Except for once. On this particular evening, I went to bed with everything at a steady status quo. I woke up about four hours later thinking that I'd been moved in my sleep from the semi-comfort of my room into the walk-in freezer of a nearby restaurant. After coming to my senses, I realized that, yes, I was still in my room. And my room had gone sub-arctic on me. I threw on a sweater and the thickest pair of socks I could find, and then I tried to figure out just why the fuck things had gotten all polar all of a sudden. After hunting around for a minute, I located the source of the problem: The pipe. I guess the wind had shifted juuust right or something, because there was frigid, icy air pumping into my room from outside. I removed the grate (using a dime to turn the screws) and I stuffed a t-shirt into the hole (that's what she said). Then I opened my door and stepped out into our kitchen, which was about twenty to thirty degrees warmer. Needless to say, it took a while for the temperature to even out and I never did get back to sleep that night. The next morning, I removed the t-shirt from the hole and found that ice had formed on the portion of it that was pointing towards the outside. I replaced the grate and the freak cold incident never happened again during my tenure living in that room.

3. When I was about fourteen or so, I played football on the JV team at my junior high school. We were the Oakridge Owls and we were (for a JV squad) surprisingly good. During the course of our practices, one of the usual activities was a rousing spectacle of violence known as "tackling drills." I'm sure you could figure out what it is from the name, but basically it's where two guys line up facing each other about twelve feet apart and, when the whistle blows, they attempt to knock the ever-loving crap out of one another. It's both painful and surprisingly fun and I credit it entirely with making me the incredibly sexy man I am today. Anyway, one day during practice, it began to rain... hard. We're talking a drenching rain, here, and this, coupled with an unseasonable October cold snap, made it feel like we were practicing football in some far-flung Alaskan backwater. Anyway, towards the end of practice, we lined up for the aforementioned tackling drills, same as always, but this time... things were a little different. As the rain fell, it had filled up two trenches on either side of the patch of field where we did our tackling drills; basically, once the drill started and two of us collided, the momentum would more than likely carry us over into about two feet of freezing rain water. And so it did. When it came to be my turn, I lined up opposite my good friend Eli. When the whistle blew, we ran forward, hit, and fell. Two things were immediately clear: One, it felt like we'd fallen into a hole that had been cut into the heart of an ice-skating rink. And two, I was fairly certain the impact from the collision had separated my left arm from the rest of my body. After I'd gotten to the back of the line, I had to squat down and focus all of my energy on not throwing up from the pain, as well as not passing out from the extreme cold. Fortunately, my arm was fine (eventually), and we were told soon after to hit the showers. And the next year, oddly enough, I started getting interested in high school drama.

Snow!

So yesterday, Brooklyn, as well as the other four boroughs, experienced it's first big, spectacular, exciting, East Coast-y, snowfall of the Winter season!!! Check it out:



Yep... had us some snow! A heap of snow, even! Tons... so much... snow...

Alright, perhaps this picture is a bit misleading... you could even say that this picture is downright false and... um... you could also make a case that it's just something that I found on the internet after Googling the phrase, "heavy snow" and doesn't technically reflect the actual amount of snowfall that we got in the area. But hey, it's not like this is the first time I've ever lied to you with pictures (I'm actually a 6'8" black guy named Stefan). In all honesty, we only got a little bit of snow and it didn't really even stick. Meh.

But whatever, the point is that it snowed, finally, here in New York and I'm so excited about it, it's all I can do to keep myself from dancing through my apartment like Kevin Bacon in Footloose while shouting, "Snowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnow WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!"

What can I say... I love the snow. It's probably because I grew up in Texas and, thus, before I moved to New York, I had previously seen snow exactly seven times before. And five of those times were on family trips in Colorado, where it doesn't count because that place is all about snow. I don't think it ever stops snowing in Colorado, truthfully, and that must be totally awesome. Because snow is awesome.

My enthusiasm for the snow knows no bounds and, truthfully, there are some people who don't care for this particular quirk of my personality. I'm not naming names or anything, but let's just say she pays half the rent and is from Upstate NY, which is just as lousy with snow as Colorado. Consequently, snow isn't a big deal to people who grew up there (apparently); in fact, they find snow to be irritating and an inconvenience.

Pshaw, I say. PSHAW!!!

Snow is pretty! And Christmas-y, just like in the movies! It's Mother Nature's freezing-cold magic sprinkles and it turns gloomy weekends into Holiday parties where everyone is wearing mittens and drinking hot chocolate out of big, ceramic mugs! Hooray for snow! HOORAY!!!

NOTE: Please understand that, after the excitement of the snowfall has worn off and everything is all wet and sludgy and I get snow in my boot one day and have to walk around with wet socks, I reserve the right to change the opinion of snow that I've expressed in this post.

For more World AIDS Day info, click here.