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6/29/04: The Working Man's a Sucker I like making fun of the many New Yorkers I know who refuse to take public transportation, specifically the subway. I call them cowards and babies and pampered little taxi-loving wussbags, and I act like their claim to New Yorker status is somehow compromised by their aversion to the subway. Meanwhile, I ride my bike to work every day and probably only take the train three times a week, almost always on weekends. Hasn't stopped me from passing judgement on these sorry fools. Until today. Today I became a commuter again, for the first time in almost three years. It ain't no way to live. When you limit your subway usage to only
three or four times a week, during off-peak hours, it's easy to
FN management has promised a bike room will be available within the next three weeks or so, and I fully intend to use that shit. Winter is going to be rough, but at least the B.O. Factor will be reduced on too-cold-to-bike days. So I beg for your forgiveness. I was stupid. I now officially pity all subway commuters, and appreciate the wisdom of avoiding the train altogether. Can I get a whoop-whoop? Other than having to commute to work with the common man in all his putrid splendor, I am excited as hell about my new office space. In general, I am beginning to recognize that I am pathetically optimistic and easily satisfied. Why else would I be so pumped about the size and privacy of my cubicle? It's still just a cubicle, but damn I like it. And I like the awesome places to eat in and around Chelsea Market. Dinny, you'll be happy to know that the "Adults Can Drink As Much Soda As They Please" sign made the trip with me, and I've got it hanging up proudly next to my "Lunching With Alan Parsons" cutout (thanks CW) and my Xavier McDaniel photo (Thanks Mr. Theocharopoulos). I had to get rid of the picture of Billy Joel in the Bugle Boy/Nazi outfit. One thing that troubles me a teeny bit is that I am now working roughly one Mark McGwire homer away from my junior high school and all the suppressed trauma that accompanies it. It makes me feel like I haven't made a lot of progress. I also want to clarify that I do not hate Boston or its inhabitants (at least not all of them). I think it's a great city and I'd like it if somebody in the know showed me around its finer parts someday. As it was, I still had a lot of fun up there, trying to make some headway on Brady's business idea by day and telling old stories at night in the bars. Brady has entered a stage of deep entrepreneurial commitment. I don't blame him. Working 'til you're 68 is pretty unappealing. The funny thing is that every time he and I engaged in a conversation this weekend, it would eventually run towards some possible way to turn the subject of that conversation into a money-making idea. It got to the point where we were ending each sentence with the words "dot com," just for comedic effect. We came up with some names that inexplicably cracked us up (ihavethebigdick.com), although ours ran a little cruder than this guy's. Competition has been great for the consumer in recent years (think cell phones, web-based email interfaces, and tranny hookers), and it's finally made its presence felt in the Bus Industry. The Chinatown bus to Boston has apparently scared Greyhound/Peter Pan (not sure what their relationship is to each other at this point) into offering some terrific deals. That's good. What's not good? The fact that travelers, and not just the poor scumrods who go by bus, still have to deal with the same lame back-scratching partnerships year after year. Why does the Peter Pan bus always make a pit stop at Roy Rogers? Is it because both names share a certain alliterative flair? Or more likely, has Peter Pan, which provides some damn decent bus service, chosen to get into bed with one of the worst fast-food chains in the nation, just for a few extra bucks? Same goes for Dasani, which is often the only bottled water available in certain parts of airports and bus terminals. Dasani is just terrible. We all know that. It doesn't have to be this way. End this tradition of mediocrity at once. Give us some choices. Every time I hear "Everybody Is a Star" by Sly and the Family Stone, I get sad for some reason. It reminds me of being 11 years old on a non-daylight savings time Sunday evening, with piles of homework undone in my schoolbag and smelly socks on my feet. I am not sure exactly why. I have always kinda had problems with Michael Moore, not because he has an agenda that he'll feed at any cost (that's what he's there to do) but because I think he humiliates the pitiful people along the way (think "Pets or Meat"). Still, so many people are raving about F. 911 that I guess it's almost my duty to see it. Maybe I should review it first. 6/28/04: Tired and Lame I arrived at Boston's South Station around 5pm on Friday, desperate to pee. After relieving myself, I went to wash up, only to find the sink was literally drenched with blood. Blood everywhere. God Bless bus travel. Anyway, Boston was pretty fun, and I could write up a nice, coherent, structured post about what I observed there, but time is short and I need to let it rock quick and easy. So I will merely list some mental notes I made over the weekend. 1. I've always believed, with limited
evidence to support my case, that Boston is a racist town.
Chris W. sends this link that makes me feel like a bad man. Each day, I guess, is another chance to do good. I was thinking about how rocking it must have been the night after prohibition ended. Prohibition itself was probably pretty rocking. It must have been exciting to go to speakeasies and know passwords and stuff. Perhaps even more fun than waiting in line to get into Jekyll and Hyde's in 2004. 6/25/04: Won't you be my neighbor? This may have gotten old already, but I just wanted to point out three more search phrases that, according to my webstats, somehow turned up results at verbungle.com. Unfortunately, I have no special knowledge on these subjects (I swear). -movie made in the 1970s at three
rivers mall about three moms who steal money Heading up to Boston today to razz the locals about the historical failings of their professional baseball team. Should be fun. May even go to a Sox game if we feel like blowing some dough. Work in its current location, work as
we've known it for five years, is winding down. And finally, on our second
to last day, I had like three great experiences in the work neighborhood
that make me think maybe it wasn't so bad. I am ready to get the f out of there, don't get me wrong. I won't be missing that dump a bit. The following is a half-assed, unfinished thought that's been sitting around for awhile gathering cyberdust. So best get it out there, even in this shitty incarnation. I wonder what would happen if somehow someone could obtain irrefutable proof of God's existence or non-existence. Like, what if God came down and said, "Look, this is me, here's a couple of miracles (poof! a goat flies into space like a rocket. bang! The Red Sox win the World Series.) to prove it. Here are photographs of heaven and hell." The thing is, the whole concept of "faith" is overrated. The idea that there is something more noble in believing in an idea that doesn't make a lot of sense, something that by its very nature will not provide evidence of its truth, is just deeply flawed. If there is a supreme being, it would be
nice if he or she would just say, "Here is a hard set of rules on how to
get into heaven: The supreme being would look around to
see if everyone was following him. Then he'd continue. While I have zero confidence that the
real supreme being, if there is one, will resemble my wished-for,
custom-designed supreme being, is my version any more far-fetched than the
one who sends you to hell for coveting some stuff? That sends you to
hell if you don't follow a bunch of silly, fraternity-style rules?
That sends David Berkowitz or Mohammad Atta to heaven? I'm shleepy, and I'm stupid.
Though you are probably welcoming a break from verbungle over the next few
days, I may get itchy to post something. If I do, and you feel like
reading it, it'll be in the comments section from this page. 6/24/04: In Defense of Scottie Basketball-related (skip down if not interested): I can't remember a player as great as
Scottie Pippen retiring with so little fanfare, in any sport.
But let's not forget what a graceful, magnificent player he was, right up through his last season with Portland (this year doesn't really count because he was so banged up). I remember chatting drunkenly with my friend Scott one day in maybe 1990, making the case that Pippen was the second best player in the world. And he may have been just that, for a good ten year period.* When the best player during that time was the best player of all-time, it makes you realize just how good he was. Here is my partial list of things not to forget about Scottie Pippen: -He grew up poorer than you, one of 12
kids in a tiny shack in rural Arkansas. I will always remember the final play of the final game of the 1997 finals; I think it symbolizes what Pippen was all about. We all remember Steve Kerr's big shot to give the Bulls the lead, and how Jordan had the confidence to give him the rock. But Utah still had a chance to tie the game at the other end. The Bulls knocked the ball away on the inbounds, and it squirted free. It was a footrace between Scottie and a Jazz player for the loose ball. You knew who'd win. Pippen squeezed ahead, but the ball was still rolling towards the sideline. Seeing Kukoc breaking out in front of the pack, Pippen dove headlong along the floor and smacked the ball perfectly ahead to his teammate, who went in for an uncontested jam as the buzzer sounded and the confetti began to fly. Another title in Chicago. Kukoc raised his arms in triumph. The cameras found Jordan, of course. And Kerr. Where was Scottie through all this? On the floor, doing the dirty work with style like he always did. While there may never be another Jordan, there will certainly be a slew of imitators stepping up to try. But in a sense, they missed the point. Gifts like Jordan's are sent from some other place. And his insatiable desire to score and win may never be matched. But perhaps the one the kids should have been imitating all along was Pippen, the graceful, subtle, self-made superstar who made it all happen for everybody else. I fear there may never be another Pippen. Sometimes the second banana is the sweetest. (Non-basketballers may hop back on here): There have probably been 10,000 times in
my life when someone slighted me, insulted me, bullied me, or otherwise
disrespected my person without cause. Out
of those 10,000, I would break down my responses as follows: The point being, with the exceptions of the yoke and the occasional brutal elegance of the "fuck you," I have been almost totally ineffective in sticking up for myself. The key is being patient enough to think of a really potent return of serve, but not so patient that your response loses its relevance and sting. That's why I'm doubly impressed by Skillz' response (scroll down to "The Champ is Here") to Shaq's out-of-leftfield attack of a couple weeks back. Skillz waited until the moment was right: he didn't respond until after Shaq had suffered the crushing playoff loss and subsequent cold shoulder from his own front office. He waited, he wrote, and then he nailed him when he was completely helpless. Very enjoyable response. I was dining in the excellent midtown eatery Sosa Barella today, and I noticed a middle-aged middle manager dude (nice paunch, blow-dried hair, bushy moustache) walk in with a woman of similar age who I assumed was his wife. After observing their behavior, I now think that perhaps it was his mistress. He demanded that she feed him a piece of bread, and after she did, he suckled on her fingers like a neglected piglet. Now that the ice was broken, he no longer needed the bread as a prop. He spent the next eight to ten minutes sucking on her fingers, one at a time and in bunches. At one point I swear he tried to engulf her entire hand in his mouth. It was so very sexy. Going to Boston this weekend to try to reason with them about their laughable bar time policy. There will likely be no verbungle during this gloomy period. Drink your milk and eat your greens. I'll be watching you. * I know almost nobody will grant me this. 6/23/04: 2:37 am: Offical Time of Verbungle! Somewhere along the line (not surprisingly, nobody really remembers exactly when), in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity, organization, and cohesion, the League of Worldwide Pot Smokers declared that 4:20 pm belonged to them for the remainder of history. If you smoke up, they said, do it at 4:20: "First, it means it's better to wait to start smoking pot until 4:20 PM--unless, of course, you have a medical reason for starting sooner. The people who roll out of bed and immediately start smoking, and continue smoking throughout the day, don't get as high as the people who wait until 4:20. The late afternoon is the time to step back and review the day's events. It's the time to brainstorm. Cannabis, sunsets and brainstorms just seem to naturally go together." -From an interview with 420.com's Steven Hager It makes sense. There are certain things that just feel right at certain times of the day. This occurred to me today as I was taking (and enjoying) my 2:35 pm piss. Why hasn't anyone besides this loose affiliation of stoners gotten around to claiming specific times of day as their exclusive property? We saw this happen at least once before, when the internet took off. Big business snoozed while a few enterprising young dorks snatched up every possible URL they could think of, knowing that a representative from Pepsi, American Express, or Tad's Steaks would soon be knocking on their door with a sizable check in hand, looking to buy back the name they could have had for free if they had only acted quickly enough. It was great fun to watch the bickering, the occasional payouts, and the inevitable suing the shit out of each other. And that was in the relatively unlimited, unrestricted sphere of internet domains. As Tad's proved, you could work around it if some little shit or some lame internet startup had the exact domain you wanted, by cleverly dropping in a hyphen here, a period there or just adding a descriptive word or two (for instance, if somebody had the domain you wanted, cocks.com, you could just go register tremendouscocks.com). Eventually, all the squabbling led to legislation that, not surprisingly, favored big business. Still, this weird little loophole or whatever you want to call it was entertaining for awhile. But times of day? Jesus, the field is so limited. There are only 1440 to begin with, assuming you grant separate rights to both an am slot and a pm. And frankly, some of those am slots are going to be tough to give away. So what the hell am I getting at? Well, it's unlikely that the corporate world will drop the ball again by sleeping through this latest wide-open marketing landscape. It's only a matter of time before you see billboards declaring: "9:48 pm. Why aren't you eating your Steak'ums?" or "It's 8:46 am. Buick Time." "1:37 am. Slip on a Trojan and get your filthy business done, stud." So my point is we need to start claiming these moments for the common man, before the Dick Cheneys of the world beat us to the punch. If they want to come around later and pay us for the rights, we can talk. Here are a few suggestions I had, just to get this project underway (these are subject to change, except for 2:35 pm and 2:37 am): 12:07 am: official time for calling it
an early night because there's just no magic available We are waiting on this week's softball recap from Ambrose. I'm sure it'll be a good one. In the meantime, a brief softball/New York City story. The other night, we were looking for a couple of extra guys to make a decent game. One fellow walked into our little park, the James J. Walker Ballfield, and sat down. I introduced myself and invited him to play. He said his name was Billy and sure, he'd give it a shot. We have a new rule in our silly little game that says you are allowed to call your home run once a game, by motioning with the bat towards the fence. This ridiculous gesture is required for the homer to count. When it was Billy's turn to signal that he intended to go deep, he asked that I take a picture of him menacingly pointing his bat towards left field. I obliged, as idiotic softball photos are my specialty. I emailed it to him last night, and I got a response that included this link (NYT reg req'd, worth it), along with the following note: "Thanks for the picture, Steve.
Attached should explain why Sunday was so ironic that I got to point a bat
at Jimmie Walker's house. It's people and stories like that that make me still love this city. Like today, when I was in a cab, and the driver, Ali Itskar, sang along with the radio in a moment of complete joy: "And the microphone smells like a beer! And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar..." For an old, out-of-shape dude, I am on a nice sports kick (although I really creamed my ribs the other night with a Schictman-like dive on the softball field): in the last four days, I have participated in the following "sports": golf, pool, table tennis, softball and tonight, basketball. I think I am officially a welcome member of the Tuesday night hoops game. We play 4 on 4, so the ideal number of people is 12, with one team always waiting for next game. Tonight I was the unlucky 13th man to show up, which really means I should just go home. I offered to do that, but a couple guys insisted I stay at the expense of "the new guy." He and I would alternate games, with me taking over for him in the next game. Of course, the alternating only happens if you lose; if you win, you stay on. We won 4 straight before I decided to head home to rest my ribs. Sorry, new guy. Big Fun in the house. Step. You know what would be scary? Say you are walking down the hallway in your apartment building late at night to take out the garbage or something. You turn the corner to head down another hallway, the one that leads to the garbage room, and at the end of the hall are those two little girls from "The Shining". They stare at you and go, "Come and play with us, (insert your name here). Forever. And ever. And ever." Yeeks. I hope that never happens to me. 6/22/04: Office Party Redux There are only 2 websites that I feel the need to read every day, Pete Brush and Tony Pierce. I think I have jocked them enough over the last few months, but I'll do it a little more, because they're the best. Even when they post a real lemon of an entry, it's worth my time. Even their most misguided and poorly executed rants bring a smile or provoke a thought. Part of it is that I'm impressed with the confidence of their opinions and the surefootedness of their prose. This makes me a little jealous. But it's OK. I have a picture of The Devoe Team on my site, so I'll get by. The reason I bring this up today of all days is not just to send them each an additional 1-3 visitors that they weren't expecting, or to further enlarge their already swollen egos. It's because I feel they may have cosmically intersected today, and I think I'll jump aboard as well. Both Tony and Pete posted today about web stats, each including a chart or graph to illustrate their point. Pete even made his first ever mention of Tony Pierce; it may or may not have been a compliment. Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about web stats myself the last few days, because I just updated to a new server that features far more elaborate stats than my old one (unfortunately, this may have caused me to lose a few emails and reset all my hit counters, etc.). I still haven't figured out what all of the stats mean, but I did get a special giggle out of this one, a list of things people were searching for yesterday that led them to verbungle.com:
I hope you enjoyed that. Even if it's not "the funniest thing ever," I think it neatly sums up what I am as a man. I also kind of like that I have become a tiny hotspot for Mickelson bashing on the web. I'm going to assume those searchers were looking for Mickelson/tit info out of scientific rather than prurient interest. On to other matters. If you have ever been out drinking with me on a night when I turn into a raging asshole or an overly affectionate lout, you know that these nights are inevitably followed by a day of guilt, anxiety and deep reflection. It usually takes me at least 24-36 hours to start feeling OK about myself again. During this period, I am arguably more unbearable than I was on the night in question. After last week's office party, I did everything in my power to avoid this truly paralyzing part of the recovery process. I got up early the next day, was the first one in the office, and outwardly behaved as if I had done nothing wrong. My comfort level was improved by the fact that most of our office has already moved to our new location, so I really had almost nobody to face. That was Friday. Rest of post removed fror job-related reasons. 6/21/04: Just for the hack of it I just want you to know that one of the wireless networks that my laptop locates as "available" in my living room is named "RandyNow." I feel kind of sick about that. Who the hell are my neighbors? I think, in the interest of global harmony, there should be certain things that we as a species can all agree are just plain wrong. Stuff that just doesn't add up. Stuff that shouldn't be. Dogs walking on their hind legs. Bartenders that never offer buybacks. Guys who wear their jockstraps on the outside of their sweatpants. Dan Rather doing the news in a New York Liberty jersey. Cars with spoilers. Children on leashes. Sandals with socks. Corn Flakes without the milk. I'm sure you've got plenty more, but you get the idea. I humbly add to that list the spectacle
of me on a golf course. If you ever saw the "White Shadow" episode
Driving the golf cart was fun, as was pounding the Bud over the last 9 holes. I have a lot of thoughts about golf now that I have mastered it, and I may share them with you eventually. But now I am sleepy so I will just say that I think games like golf should have to prove their qualifications for sport-hood, much the way countries have to make a case for their right to join the EU. I don't think we should just take people's word for it that a game that involves driving around in a cart, pounding the Bud, and smacking a little ball as many times as necessary until it goes in a hole should be called a sport. An excellent and intriguing game, yes. But a sport should involve running, pushing, yelling and not so much damn etiquette and technique. And preferably it should involve somebody trying to stop you from doing what you need to do. The truth is I just suck and I think it's another ten years before I've got the dedication and/or desperation to get any better. But you can't beat speeding around in that cart among the rabbits and trees and the tall cool Buds. Nothing quite compares with Nature. Followed up that bad golf with some good softball tonight. Wish you could have made it. Whoever turns out to be lucky visitor #15,000, lemme know. I'll send you a blank CD or something. In the meantime, a former colleague has trumped my list of office offenses for which I was not fired: A few "unprofessional" things I
did during my tenure at the FN, by "Reese"* * not his real name "Oh, God. Oh, Shit." That was me at Thursday's midsummer gathering, after offending the departing company president. As Mike Reno might say -- in fact, as Mike Reno WOULD say -- you better start from the start: So, when the outgoing president came up and said --
Whatever. Here's what happened with the Prez. Our company had reserved the no-longer-fashionable B Bar for its summer outing, which started at 3. I showed up right on time. At maybe 3:17, the outgoing FN President, who has moved to Nashville to run a new network owned by the same parent company as the FN, arrived in a car. I was standing right near the entrance, talking to fellow lifers Bill K. and Val S. (hard-boiled girl), and the Prez walked up to Bill and gave him a kiss on the cheek. This was sort of her farewell party, and it was never made clear to me whether she was leaving on her own accord or if she was forced out. After she greeted Bill, she greeted Val, and at least pretended to know her. I extended my hand to say hello, and she said, "Have we met before?" Kind of snotty, I thought. I don't really know her, but I've met her several times. It was also kind of a blow to my ego -- I've been working for this company for more than a decade, and the President still has no idea who I am. Maybe part of that is intentional -- the whole low profile thing. But it still stung a little. "I'm Steve," I said, as if that should trigger her memory. Oh, you're Steve...STEEEVE...THE LEGENDARY, WONDERFUL STEVE. "...and what do you do...?" she asked. 10 years of top-quality minimum effort, and not a glint of recognition. "I'm the new president of the company," I offered. Bill gasped. Val chuckled. The president stared at me for a minute, and then walked away without a smile or a word. The party was 17 minutes old and I had already offended the highest of the higher ups. And I wonder why I still sit in a cubicle. A man of the people, that's me. A true idiot. So we went out and rocked the town. I talked to a lot of people, I said some things I probably shouldn't have. I don't recall much. I do remember having a conversation with somebody who said that he once walked into a bar and saw Dipak, standing there with his shoes on fire. I don't remember who said it nor the context. I talked about my hatred for Schilling with a Red Sox fan. I almost blew my cover and told some work people about the website. Never a good idea. I insulted some people and talked out of school. I've made no progress as a man. Watching Jeff Weaver tonight I am reminded what a crazy, mentally fragile dude he is. I don't miss him. Vasquez I like a lot. Tomorrow I play golf for the third time in my life. I pity the people who are paired with us. It's gonna be a hackfest. * - I blew this one Thursday night 6/17/04: Unfinished Attempt When I was about 25, it seemed impossible and unjust that I was still getting pimples. "Shouldn't I be done with this BS?" I wondered. Well, now I'm pushing 35 and I have a protrusion beneath my right nostril that resembles Vinson Massif, Antarctica's largest mountain. This is not fair at all. We have our company "summer outing" today. I'll try to keep it to a couple of beers and hopefully I'll slip out of there with a nice buzz and no harm done to the cloak of invisibility that I wear to protect me from being noticed by the big company cheeses. Corporate Survival Tip #1 (if indeed you're interested in corporate survival, and I don't know why you would be): Maintain a low profile.* This won't help you thrive or get ahead, just survive. It is some sort of bizarre accomplishment, although not one I'm especially proud of, that I've managed to avoid being let go for so very damn long at this job. It's especially weird because I'm totally not cut out for the stuff I'm doing. But at least I have my fun when I can. Here are some things I've done on the job that didn't result in my dismissal: 1) Grab a big handful of
pants/underwear/genitalia, making it look like I've got a big ol' something happening down there, and display this for
anyone who's interested or nearby.
I did this almost every day, as a special gift to selected female and male co-workers, for about five
years. 6/16/04: The Profound Joy of Laughing at Your Fellow Man Our company moved into its then-new location (way-West 52nd street) in late August of 1999. While walking to his first day of work in the new space, a guy I know saw two homeless people fucking in one of those rolling postal hampers. It was a fitting signal for what we had to look forward to over the next five years: streets strewn with horsey poo, doggy poo, humany poo, rats, used condoms, rabbit-shaped vibrators, and angry, bottle-throwing homeless folks. One day, a girl I work with was hit in the head by a hard-boiled egg thrown from like a fifth story window. As she stumbled the final block towards work, badly shaken, one of the local teenage thugs who witnessed the event gleefully yelled, "Yo, that was hard-boiled!" So I am ready to leave. The neighborhood is devoid of charm, it lacks good food and good views and own-neighborhood-respecting dog owners. Finally, after five scummy years, we're relocating
again, this time to Chelsea Market, a swinging, fashionable,
charming building on 16th street and 9th avenue. Half of our office
has moved already, the other half (including me) will move in about ten
days. Today, a few of us who are still stranded on 52nd street went
down to Chelsea to check out the new digs. We pulled up in a cab,
and in what I hope is not another omen, we saw a schoolboy, maybe 16 years
old, in the process of passing out on the sidewalk right outside our luxurious new office
building. He was drooling and had soiled himself in at least two
ways. Urine gently streamed out from beneath him
towards the gutter. The cops went to check him out, and we asked
them what happened. Apparently today was the last day of school, and
Little Jimmy went out and had a few drinky drinks and God knows what else.
It was only around 12:45 pm, so either he's a serious lightweight or he
had a very busy morning. As one cop was pulling on his rubber
gloves, he said, "I can't really pass judgment on the kid; I've been there
plenty of times myself." Who says you can't find an honest cop?
Anyway, the cops were kind of lollygagging because they had called an
ambulance and clearly preferred to wait and let the medical personnel
clean the poor bastard up. At this point, a young
man walked by, maybe 26 or 27, and announced that he was the boy's teacher
at Humanities High School. There was some raw humanity on display,
that's for sure. I think of all the people you don't want rescuing
you when you collapse on a city street in your own sick, your teacher must
be right up there, next to your fiancé's dad. Let's hope the poor
schmuck was a senior. Other than that little episode, the new space kicks ass. The people who joined me on the tour might disagree, and eventually I'm sure I'll find faults with everything, but right now I am just super excited to move to a decent place. Great food and happy people abound. The girl who got hit in the head with the egg has her own huge, swanky office now. That's hard-boiled. I played hoops tonight instead of watching the NBA. From what I understand, the Pistons just threw that basketball right up through that hoop with great regularity on their way to dismantling the Lakers. This was really one of the most one-sided Finals in my basketball-watching lifetime, and satisfyingly so. There was no reason to root for the Lakers outside of LA, unless you're a frontrunning dickhole. My own game is in a weird state. I feel like one of those hack golfers who stinks up the joint all day, and then nails one amazing shot and goes home happy and ready to play again. I had an upset stomach tonight and my shot was erratic, but I had one game-winning lefty floater down the lane that just went in so perfectly, it made me suppress an asshole smile. Where has that shot been all my life? I don't think I've ever made one quite like it, and it just felt so natural. I'll bet it was a one-time thing. I keep reading little things here and there about how badly Bush wants to achieve his little Moon/Mars exploration initiative, and it really bothers me. Granted, landing some motherfuckers on Mars (or creating a believably faked videotape of such an event) is a serious accomplishment, something we can all be proud of. But is it important enough to justify all the money we'll spend on it, when we have homeless people and uncured diseases and retired sailors who can't afford a decent prostitute and kids passing out in their own mess on 9th avenue? I think not. I know Bushie wants to restore that sense of false national happiness we felt during the original space race, and again during the Reagan administration. And I also know that there is probably some potential scientific benefit to be gained from going to these planets and moons and shit*, but aren't we really doing it just because it's kind of cool, like tweaking some genes to create a 50 foot green bear? Couldn't we put a teeny fraction of that money into financing another Snake River Canyon jump for Evel Knievel (perhaps this time on a unicycle), or towards stem cell research? Or towards the 50 foot green bear? Then we'd have plenty left over for the folks that need it. People who fuck in hampers, for instance. *Yes, I realize we will never actually land a "spaceship" on "Mars" or any other place. But we must engage in this debate as if such a thing is possible. 6/15/04: They Blew Up the Chicken Man in Rhinebeck Last Night When I was talking about all the nasty insects and shit
they have up in "The Country," I neglected to mention the most fearsome
creature I encountered at the wedding this weekend. Somehow a wild
chicken got loose in the reception tent -- a species that hasn't been seen
in Dutchess County in over 10 years -- and terrorized
The weird thing about running a bullshit little website is that you go through these long periods of intense self-doubt. What the hell am I doing? Is there a point to it all? Are the few people reading it laughing with me, or shaking their heads at my tireless futility and capacity to entertain myself? Is my website more fun for me than the other people who see it? It's kind of embarrassing on a certain level. You just want to bag the whole thing, tiptoe off the cyberscape and regain your anonymous dignity. But fuck that. Just because you hit a lull in your output, or you realize that even at its best, your output was wack, is no reason to pack it in. You forge ahead. You do it for your brothers, you do it for yourself. And sometimes, you do it for Johnny. When you're down on yourself, nothing reignites your Mojo like some contributions from the outside world. And that's what you've given us today. So the beleaguered editorial staff at verbungle.com thank you for picking us out of the trench of mediocrity we dug for ourselves -- for slapping us upside the head and welcoming us back to the land of the living. Bless you, good people. All this blogging about blogging has inspired me to make a list. Well, almost. It's inspired me to think of a topic for a list. You can fill in the list itself by posting in the comments section below, if you are so inclined. Topic: songs that are at least vaguely about being in a band. Off the top of my head, here are a couple to get it started: 1) Street Fighting Man - Rolling Stones Huckster Alert: I have been adding a few things here and there, and some of you may be concerned about the over-commercialization of the site. Rest assured, we have yet to see a dollar from any of this. We give you verbungle for the glory, not for the dough. But I want to direct your attention to the T-shirt at left (the one on top), which you can click on to purchase your own "Republican't '04" T-shirts. If you don't want to do this, you are free to continue enjoying www.verbungle.com at no cost. But if you want to share in this soon-to-be national phenomenon, and help my buddy out at the same time, get on board now. I haven't done any actual research on this, and I think it goes without saying, but I'm going to say it anyway as a public service: it is highly inappropriate for white people to rub the heads of black people, even lovingly. That shit is unbelievably condescending and racist and it gets me sick when I see it. I speak from some personal experience: I remember once when I was about 18, I went to Great Adventure with a couple of my friends, who happened to be African-American. I was on that ride where you sit in the little chairs and they swing you around on the cables, sort of like an airborne Merry-Go-Round. There was an adorable little African-American girl in the chair in front of me, and I guess I was caught up in the day's giddy spirit of racial harmony, because once the ride was done, I patted her on the head affectionately (a pat, not a rub, but still...). I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. There was no malicious intent on my part, just an unforgivable lack of sensitivity. She freaked out and started screaming at me. I recoiled and wondered for about eight seconds what I had done wrong. Then it was just obvious -- even beyond the racial implications, who the hell wants a stranger patting their kid on the head? When I told my friends, they were horrified and amused. They tried to delicately explain to me why I couldn't do stuff like that. The whole thing reminds me of an interview I read with Eddie Murphy maybe 15 years ago. As we all know, Eddie is an Elvis Presley fanatic, and when he finally made it big, he actually got to meet Elvis' cracker manager, Colonel Parker. It was a huge thrill for Eddie; he felt like he had finally arrived. They were at a craps table in Vegas, and all of a sudden the Colonel rubbed Eddie's head for good luck. Eddie said it took all of his self-control not to just sock the old bastard in the mush. As big a star as he was, he would never be an equal in the eyes of a crusty old racist like Colonel Parker. I don't know what any of this means. But it filled some space on the page. 6/13/04: City Mouse, Country Mouse Went up to the Hudson Valley for a (verbungle.com contributor's) wedding this weekend. What a lovely area. The minute we pulled our rented Impala out of New York City, I felt all my stress dissipate. It was so pleasant. And they're doing their best to give Bush the boot up in Rhinebeck.
The only problem with living out there are the bugs. They've got all kinds: spiders; skeeters; big nasty wasps; wild, angry ants; huge grasshoppers, etc. That bothers me a great deal. I also don't really know how to drive a car very well. That separates me from most Ohioans, I'd assume. So maybe I'm not cut out for the city or the country. The pushups and situps took a back seat to the dancing, drinking, and stuffing my face with all available foodstuffs this weekend. Not good, but worth it. It was good to see the Lakers lose again tonight. I don't think they're dead by any means, even though they flashed a graphic tonight that 27 teams have been down 3-1 in the NBA Finals, and all 27 have lost. Now that's a statistic. Still, I could see the Lakers overcoming the odds and winning three straight. The interesting thing to me, though, is how much better Detroit looks on both ends of the floor -- if you just turned on this series without knowing anything about the two teams and their respective reputations, you'd feel certain the Pistons were the better team. And with Malone gimpy and Payton left out/disinterested, I think they might actually be. I just want them to win one more game, I don't care how they do it. Sheepin' is now officially part of the vernacular. Too bad if you don't like it. The softball returned tonight with some of the most exciting play we've seen all year. We've also added an incredibly stupid new rule that somehow made the game much more fun for everybody. Details to follow. 6/11/04: Whackin' your way across the USA Evidence of disrespect: the Pistons just beat the Lakers 88-68. After the game, the on-screen graphic read: Los Angeles Lakers 88, Detroit Pistons 68. Then Al Michaels said, "Final score: Los Angeles 88, Detroit 68." Somebody better wake up and realize these Pistons are a hell of a team. And I mean team. The Lakers look like a bunch of gunners from a lawyer league. Zero chemistry. Zero togetherness. I look at them and I see what other people see when they look at the Yankees: hired guns assembled to win championships and sell jerseys. Of course, I am still cursing the Pistons for losing Game 2 in such an inexcusable way. The Lakers remain deadly and I'd still give them at least a 44.7% chance of winning the series. We'll see. From time to time, there is a bit of an objection from the gay acting community when a straight actor gets to play the role of a gay man in a movie (e.g. Kevin Kline in "In & Out" -- lousy movie btw). The argument is, since nobody's casting (out) gay actors in straight parts, it's a double slap in the face when a good gay role arises and the gay actors are snubbed for that as well. I think it's a pretty persuasive bit of logic. And I think it can be extrapolated to include ugly actors who get overlooked for ugly roles. Sure, Charlize Theron was supposedly great in "Monster," but was it really worth getting her all uglied up? Aren't there thousands of talented ugly actors desperate for work? Imagine you are an unattractive, overweight blond actress with all the acting training and credentials in the world (or at least all the credentials that an unattractive actress can collect in the current system). You hear of this movie "Monster" that's being made about the unattractive blond serial killer Aileen Wuornos, and you just know it's the role of a lifetime for you. Your agent agrees and says he'll do anything to get it for you. He goes to bat for you like never before, and you get an audition. You knock it out of the park -- you own this character. Handshakes all around. Things look good, this might be the break you've been waiting for through all those nights waiting tables and doing local theater. You're going to find out on Monday. All weekend you think about it. You promise yourself not to get your hopes up; it's a juicy role and there are probably a lot of talented women up for it. But you can't help feeling a little excited. There was magic at that audition. Everyone had to feel it. You have this part. Then Monday comes. Your agent calls. You can tell right away from his voice that you didn't get it. But you're a pro. You realize it's the nature of this ultra-competitive business you've chosen for yourself. Still, you're so wounded that you can't help but ask your agent who they're going with instead. "Charlize Theron." How do you keep plugging away after that? I think I saw the word "gank" for the first time a few weeks ago on Pete's website. He used it to mean "badly fucked up": I fear my digital camera might be ganked. I liked that word, so I looked it up and found some very amusing definitions. Good site. So I am not going to post any more photos with the nice wrapping style on this page until I can figure shit out. If there is a new photo, there'll be a thumbnail to click in the upper left hand corner. Go ahead and click that thing with all your might. There was a mini-uproar in our office over MSNBC's question of the day today (link has probably now changed to a new question): "Would you like to see President Ronald Reagan on Mt. Rushmore?" Can you believe that shit? How quickly we've forgotten the reality of the Reagan administration. I can't see how even a staunch Reaganite can get with that idea. Even if you ignore Reagan's shameful legacy in a multitude of areas, I don't understand the need to sanctify the guy. Did FDR get this much respect? I have never purchased pornography on the internet, but apparently many people do. Using credit cards, I guess. Some of which are connected with airline mileage programs. It occurred to me today that there are probably thousands of men out there who are accumulating free miles with every stroke. There are doubtless some sickos who have thirty or forty free tickets, all from porn. What a land we live in. My verbungle.com T-shirt arrived today, and I must say I am greatly impressed with the quality. I also have to admit that I'm not crazy about the idea of walking around with an anus on my back. Perhaps this design choice was unwise. That may partially explain our disappointing sales figures. I was sore from my pushup/situp fest today. But I muscled through. Sure to be sorer tomorrow. This is never gonna work.
6/10/04: 20 pushups this morning, that was half o' my goal Dear Squashed Gnat-Fruit Fly Hybrid, I hope you know (I think you do) that I didn't want to kill you. In fact, I hate to see any living creature killed.* I include you in this category, perhaps charitably. You had no real thought process. You had no name. You had no code of behavior -- you made that perfectly obvious. Despite all this evidence that your presence on earth was incidental at best, I would rather see you alive than dead. Generally speaking, I won't kill an insect unless it violates the sanctity of my home. I know it's late for me to be telling you this, but I just wanted you to know that I am not an indiscriminate killer of bugs. Sure, you were only a lowly bug, and most people would have smashed you dead the moment they came across you for the first time. But not me. Do you remember when we first met? I do. You were flying around my head down in the laundry room. It was hot today, and I was really working with all that laundry. I bet my sweat smelled sweet to you. The back of my neck was soaked. Laundry can be hard work. Do you know what hard work is like? You don't, do you? Your whole life was an experiment in self-gratification, wasn't it -- the flying, the screwing, the eating. I'm getting mad just thinking about it. But when you first started buzzing around my head, you caught me in a good mood. Don't get me wrong, I seriously considered killing you right then. It wouldn't have made a big difference to me -- I've killed plenty of bugs in my life. I'm guessing it wouldn't have made a difference to anyone or anything -- except (maybe) you. As annoying as you were, though, I thought to myself: He doesn't know any better. This is just what strange little gnat-fruit fly hybrids do. And so I just sort of waved at you, as a friendly warning that I am 6 feet tall and weigh well over 100 pounds. Never mind exactly how much I weigh -- just know that I am plenty big enough to kill you. When I waved at you, I thought maybe you'd fly away, at least for a minute, before you came back and bothered me again. But you were too pathetic to even fly away. You just kind of flopped down on top of the washing machine and laid there, looking sick or dead. Were you trying to play dead, perhaps to make me feel sorry for you? We'll never know. But I did know you weren't dead. And I knew that if I left you sitting there on top of the washing machine, you would stupidly start wandering towards the edge, and eventually you'd crawl into my load and get all mixed up with my stuff. Again, I wasn't concerned about the fact that you'd die inside that washer; what bothered me is that you were kind of gross and I didn't want you in with my clean clothes. No offense intended. So as you sat there, pretending to be dead, I got REALLY tempted to just squash you flat. But again, you were kind of gross, and I didn't want you on my hand. I actually looked around for something to smush you with, and I didn't see anything right away, so I decided to just kind of sweep you off the machine with my hand. Again, a chance to kill you, and I said, "No, let's let the little guy live." That's at least a couple of chances I gave you, right there. Of course, when I swept you off the washer top, you sort of slid in between the closed lid of the machine and the little area where you reach to open the lid. I know none of this makes sense to you, but that's how it works. Anyway, you were now VERY close to getting into the machine and tainting my laundry. I opened the lid and there on the edge you sat, still acting dead. Now, please remember that I find you kind of gross. But I took my finger and I slid you back over the lip of the machine, and then I sort of flung you out towards the center of the room. I didn't know if you'd fall onto the floor or what, and I didn't really care. It did cross my mind that, even though you were falling from a structure hundreds of times as tall as your own tiny self, you weighed so little that whatever small amounts of wind there were in that room would probably help you land softly.** I also knew that you had an exoskeleton so the fall would probably not harm you. I actually felt good about that. How many chances is that? I've lost count. Do you realize just how lucky you were to come across me today? Of course, once you hit the air, you started flying around again, proving that you had most likely been faking the whole time. Joke's on me. Ha ha ha. Ya got me. To be honest, even with all the inconvenience you had caused me, I was sort of relieved to see you were still healthy and strong. It made me feel like my efforts to spare you had been worth it. And if this were a Disney movie, the story would have ended there. You would fly back to the gnat-fruit fly shack where you live, and you'd brag to all the other little gnats and fruit flies and gnat-fruit fly hybrids about how you had outsmarted a huge, horrible ogre. You'd have been Hero of the Day material. I would have gone on my way, finished my laundry in peace, and forgotten all about you. The End. But you couldn't just let it die, could you? You had to fuck with me some more. What a giant pair of gnat-fruit fly nads you must have had. There I was, dumping a load of laundry onto the bed, upstairs in my apartment, which I pay for with the salary I WORK FOR (although that concept is probably beyond your grasp), when I felt a little nibble on the back of my neck. At first, I thought it was just an itch, but then it stung a little bit so I instinctively swatted at my neck and felt something back there. I guess it comes as no surprise when I say: It was you! I brought my hand forward and sure enough, there was your shattered body in my palm. You fucking bit me! I really couldn't believe it. I still can't believe it. You were such an asshole. I'm glad you're dead. Sincerely, * - It is not that I love animals. They're merely
OK. But I respect their right and desire to live. So my wife and I have let our gym membership expire. We were the worst. We went for the first couple of months and then stopped entirely. And they have re-enrolled us for another year because we didn't cancel on time. For us to cancel now, they will charge us for the next 45 days. Scumbags. Leeches. I know it's our fault, but that's a pretty shitty way to run a business. No letter saying our membership was coming up for renewal. No phone call. No willingness to be decent humans and consider waiving the charges. It's obvious that a significant percentage of their revenue comes from poor saps like us who fail to cancel on time. They already got their money's worth from us, the greedy pigs. I hate those bastardos. The whole experience proves to me once again that I am not fit for stepping into a gym unless I am bouncing a ball. It's just dreadfully boring. Equinox gets the gas face. Verbungle.com hereby calls for a boycott of all Equinox facilities and products until they waive these evil charges. Effective immediately. None of this changes the fact that my potato-shaped ass
needs to get in shape. So in a pathetic tribute to scrawny kids in
suburban basements from 1952 to the present, I am going to start doing
some daily pushups and situps. And since it's 2004, I will keep you
updated on my website. I'm going to start slow. 50
pushups a day and 100 situps. When I miss a day or come up short, I need
to make that shit up. At the left of this page you will be able to follow
my progress. Good luck to me. I wonder how long I'll stick
with it. Any guesses
I did get some exercise today -- played hoops in Riverside Park. The jumper's still not dropping, but the rest of the game is coming around. I aim to play again tomorrow and get Vinnie Johnson-hot from the perimeter. Oh, the poor Pistons. They need some serious pep-talkin' to recover from dickhead Kobe's heroics the other day. Not only do I like the Pistons and hate the Lakers, but I like Larry Brown and I HATE Phil Jackson. If the Pistons manage to beat this heavily favored Laker squad, it will make all the arguments about whether Jackson is a great coach or an unbelievably lucky one sway ever so slightly towards lucky, and that'd be dandy with me. Even though if I had to be perfectly honest I'd say "great coach." And if I had to bet it'd be on the f'in' Lakers. Deion Sandals writes, in response to my Mean Girls review: "Mean Girls (MG) Review (Addendum) I for one definitely agree with you. Many more seasoned reviewers mentioned this connection in their heavily seasoned reviews. I think even the makers of the movie made lots of references to "Heathers" in their publicity tours. Heathers was better, IMO, although not as great as some people say it is. I do give it respect for naming the high school after Paul Westerberg.
6/9/04: theyTunes The other night at the bar, a few of us noticed the bartendress taking a paper napkin and wrapping it around the neck of our beer bottles, then tucking part of the napkin into the bottle. It seemed kind of weird. I've been served thousands of beers and I don't recall this procedure ever being part of it. There were various theories being tossed around, the most interesting one wondering if this little napkin was a shield to prevent a roofie from being dumped into your brewski.* Then last night we went to another bar and the bartendress did the same thing. I had to ask her what the dealy/dilly** was. Me: That's the second time in a row that the bartender has
done that. What is that all about? The Irish are a clean
and considerate people. Played some hoops tonight. I need to put out an APB on my jumper -- I just don't feel comfortable shooting the ball. My confidence is all messed up, so when I get an open shot, I insist on dribbling to find an easier shot. Of course, by the time I get to that better spot, the defense is back on me and the shot is harder. I'll figure it out; please don't worry. It still feels great to get some exercise. I soaked through my shirt like Moses Malone in the '83 playoffs. I had a terrifying moment at work today. I went to the printer to pick up something, and nestled among the unclaimed print jobs that constantly gather right on top of the printer was yesterday's verbungle.com home page. I have no real explanation for this. I assume I must have printed it by accident, as I have only told a few select co-workers about the site and I am sure it wasn't any of them who did it. As much as it's nice to publicize your shit and get people to look at it, you don't want the big bosses looking at it, nor your co-workers who you may choose to dis*** in a future post. The worst thing was that I noticed it was printed on 6/7, which means it sat there for a full day. I'm sure every idiot saw it; I wonder if any of them read it or looked it up. If so, hey guys, you're the best. Signed, Randolph Mantooth. The comments are da bomb.**** Keep leaving 'em. I am going to pay $12 so I can make them ad-free. Don't want to be inadvertently running Bush ads or Zima ads or Yanni ticket broker ads or anything else that might damage our children's future. In one of the aforementioned comments, Pete B.
wrote: This is by no means safe for work, and it ain't exactly new, but I got a couple of nice laughs out of it. * - The term "brewski"
is being used ironically. So, incidentally, is the term "bungmeister."
6/8/04: Dogs love popsicles First if all, we want to apologize for the strange formatting problems with yesterday's post.* Apparently the picture was covering up a significant portion of the text, and that's not good. It says, "amateur" and I can't really disagree with that assessment. It looked fine in my home browser, but at work it looked like a doodoo pie. I'm not sure if it has to do with what browser version you're using, what OS you're running, what monitor size you're lookin' at, or what your display settings are. Either way, hopefully that postcard has shrunk down a little bit. If you feel like you've ever missed something important, please check our archives, which are located right about here. And anytime something like that is f'd up, please send us an email to let us know. We'll put our best guy on it. Enough with all that. What I really want to announce is that with inspiration from hockey junkie/martial arts master/good time guy Pat C., I have finally managed to add some feedback opportunities, some interactivity, to the site. I'm using Haloscan, which seems like a pretty nice interface. It must be nice if I was able to implement that shit. So at the bottom of each day's news report, there will be a link called "comment" where I expect you to leave whatever witty replies you might have to that day's post. Or, if you just want to write, "You're a doucheboy" or "Yossarian Lives" or "Go Devil Rays," that's cool, too. We welcome all opinions equally. We're just tickled to be hearing from you freaks.
After that, I went out for dinner with the W. brothers in the E. Village. It was a chance to do a little birfday all-star jam recappin' and a little knee slappin' as well. Not many stories to tell from the after-party.** Just the usual outstanding work by everybody involved. When I walk through the East Village, my heart breaks a little. It's just so vibrant and alive and full of interesting human specimens -- I don't care how many separate gentrifications it's been through. I find it hard to believe I don't live there, in my little shitbox apartment, anymore. The middle eastern place on 3rd Ave. off of St. Marks that had the restaurant-naming contest has opened and is thriving under its chosen name, Chickpea. I guess my suggestion, Middle East Village, was a little too touchy for these times. "Chickpea" is kind of nice, actually. They must love having their outdoor cafe space butting right up against DJ Lenny M's sonic assault. It was pretty comical watching the people pretending to have conversations when it was quite obvious all they could hear was Lenny M's big beats. I think we've got about two reader challenges left in us, then we're going to take a break. So knock this latest one outta the park. And enrich yourself with some excellent contributed content: reviews and challenge answers. It's a long list, but there are few better covers than The Replacements' version of "Another Girl, Another Planet" by the Only Ones.*** Care to offer one? * - And, potentially, today's post.
6/6/04: Birthday Merriment with The Mayor One of the perks that comes with publishing such a swinging, successful site as this one is that big-name companies are constantly offering me ridiculous amounts of money to give little motivational speeches to their employees, shareholders, etc. It's a piece of cake -- I have like three standard speeches that I rotate. I pepper my talks with a few lively anecdotes, I pass out some verbungle.com coffee mugs, and everybody has a grand old time. Usually, I stick around for a few minutes afterwards, signing autographs, posing for photos, answering stupid questions -- anything I can do to touch the lives of the little people. And during these little chats, the most commonly asked question is: "Mr. Bungle, how the hell do you keep coming up with all that fresh content, like every damn day of the year?" And I tell them what I'm going to tell you. It's not easy. And it can end up running your life. Every time you have a stray thought or you hear somebody say something remarkably stupid at work or you listen to the President embarrass our country on TV, you think, "Can I work that into some enjoyable content for our loyal readers?" It's pretty insane, really -- you end up not saying things out loud because you want to save them for your stupid website, which is read by all of eight people. No way to go through life, I know. But it's the truth. I'm often sending myself little reminder emails that may or may not eventually germinate into posts. Other times I am skulking in the corner, leaving myself little voice memos in my cell phone, looking for all intents and purposes like a goddamn idiot. Which of course is what I am. But the short answer is, that's what it takes to bring this daily magic into your lives.
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forget
just how repulsive a rush-hour train can be. Unattractive people doing
unattractive things. Bodily smells that take you back to cave times,
or at least to the sweaty 70's. Greasy poles to grab. Guys shoving you in the
back. Flexing your ass muscles so you can feel your wallet at all times. Loud
noise, congestion, inevitable delays. The unfathomable, oblivious
impoliteness of others. And this is all in a three stop train ride
on the express. 
It's
a small sample but this weekend I heard the "N" word used twice in bars,
in a very scary and aggressive way. So I say a big, Al
Goldstein-style "fuck you" to all the white-cap-wearing,
idiotic-nonsense-spouting, date-raping, bar-brawling Boston chowderheads
(while acknowledging that they may not represent the city as a whole).
Nah, I bet they do. Fuck you racist Boston.
little
Mexican cafe in the Worldwide Plaza area. It's so nice to sit
outside and sip a beer on a hot day, isn't it? They don't call me
MOTO (Master Of The Obvious) for nothing. Whatever, point is it was
fun. After my beer, I needed to go take a leak, so I excused myself
from the table and went to the john. It turns out it was a pretty
nasty coed bathroom, and I didn't want to touch anything. I washed
my hands but didn't flush the toilet or put the seat back down (often I
will handle those duties with a foot, but this bathroom was especially
gross). I got back out to the table, and my (female) co-worker
excuses herself to go to the (same, now piss-toileted) bathroom. It didn't
dawn on me until she had gotten up that I was an animal and she was about
to discover that. When she came back, I apologized and she was like,
"No problem, I took care of it." Yuck. Co-ed bathrooms: bad.
Real bad.
Sure,
he could be a petulant little brat at times, and there is still no real
excuse for
(beware, possible audio)
where
the team hits the links and extreme zaniness ensues, you have an idea how
out of place I felt. It was a beautiful day and it turned out to be
plenty of fun, but Good God do I suck at golf. Worse even that that
guy Eldrick Woods. Luckily, me and 
Whoops. Sorry, I nearly forgot. In
addition to the other affronts to our dignity that our company has inflicted on us in recent weeks (non-functioning bathrooms, no garbage
collection, no water, no A/C, a general sense that we are not worthy of no kinda
respect), we found a used condom
on the floor of the culinary locker room (yes, that's it on the left).
People are doin' it in the office and they're not even cleaning up after
themselves. That's some brazen work behavior. It definitely
tops anything on my list.
the
guests with a bizarre and aggressive mating dance before hopping off into the night.
Luckily, I got me some photographic evidence. Before I send it on to the
Hudson Valley Ornithological Society, you can all have a look at right (if you
dare).
I
think I am cut out for small town living. The other day somebody at
work told me that they couldn't believe I grew up in New York City.
He said I seem like I'm from Ohio or something. This is approximately the
10 billionth time I've heard this. And it's true: I don't really have an
accent, I don't wear fancy clothes, and I don't have much of an attitude.
I may as well live in Ohio. Or at least Rhinebeck. This whole
big city lifestyle is a flagrant lie and I need to get out of here while I
still can. A town like Rhinebeck seems perfect. It's close enough to
the city so you don't feel isolated, but it doesn't have that suburban
cookie cutter feel to it. You see lots of little shops and
restaurants and none of them are called Banana Republic or Subway.
as
to what the date will be when I discreetly remove the text at the left and
pretend it never happened? (That's a hint to take a guess in the
"Comments" section.)
Still not sure if that's the real explanation, though.
I played
some work softball in Central Park today. I've never been much of a rah
rah guy when it comes to softball, and playing on the work team is a little too
rah rah for me. Truth be told, the biggest problem is that I cannot hit to
save my life. Just a bunch of gentle popups. I need to learn
how to swing with some authority. That'll be on next year's resolutions.
Well, when I got home from Greg W.'s 30th birfday
all-star jam last night, I guess I drunkenly left myself one of these
notes. Don't remember doing it, nor what the heck I was thinking of,
but there it is, scrawled in sharpie on the back of a cardboard VHS
sleeve:
