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2008-09-12T18:03:00.001-05:00

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Stuff That Keeps Me Busy

2008-01-08T22:55:00.000-05:00

Seeing: There Will Be Blood. There was. I went into this movie preemptively taking 2 Advil. I heard that it was bleak and unforgiving, and P.T. Anderson and I have an interesting history. Or not. I loved 9/10 of Boogie Nights, thought Magnolia was pretentious and over the top (saved by the gorgeous Aimee Mann music) and Punch Drunk Love made me homicidally angry. This movie was an original auteur vision, but I really don't think it's the new Citizen Kane or modern masterpiece like many critics are rapturously claiming. Daniel Day Lewis acts with a capital A, and every once in a while the whole movie veered into Saturday Night Live skit territory. After I saw the film, I didn't really feel like talking; I just wanted to wrap myself up in a blanket, shower and listen to upbeat music. But overall, it's a gorgeously scored, often powerful, perfectly fine movie that I never, ever want to see again. Oh, I can't believe I am saying this, but the scene in the bowling alley when people scream about milkshakes still leaves me profoundly confused.

Reading: Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman by Haruki Murakami. This is a collection of Murakami's best short stories from throughout the past couple decades. I thought that this would be a book that I would pick up once in a while and be able to read other things after a couple of selections, but it's become completely addictive. His ability to transform quotidian detail into the extraordinary and really make you think has gotten me hooked. It's the most relaxing book I have read in quite a while. Each selection is a character study that centers on a momentary revelation, and while I normally prefer more plot-driven fiction, these stories fly by with ease. In the introduction, the author perfectly sums up how the book feels: "If writing novels is like planting a forest, then writing short stories is more like planting a garden."

Eating: Fork, 306 market Street, Philadelphia, PA. I know I am not Craig Laban, but I had a lovely dining experience there this weekend. I have a hilarious story about dining there forthcoming in which my friends and I meet the owner of the establishment, but until then I will tell you that the Hanger Steak with Chimmichurri with the Yucca Frites was delicious, if slightly overdone. I loved EJ's Porkchop with some sort of sweet sauce and honey-glazed sweet potatoes even better (and so did he). The tastes I managed to steal from JB of his 1/2 Duck Two Ways and CC's Roasted Free Range Chicken were great, as well. The drinks? Not so much. I would stick with wine over mixed drinks. The best thing I had all night there was a mix of the chef's nightly tapas: baby mozzarella with roasted peppers, Spanish meatballs and the best thing, braised pork belly with hoisin sauce. Extra bonus points are awarded for the cute waitress/Rashida Jones lookalike who sang Dan Fogleberg songs with us.

Hating: The Anti-Fois Gras protesters in Philadelphia. Please let me walk past Susannah Foo's without having to see your pictures of goose fetus or whatever it is that's supposed to make me support your cause. It's gross; it makes me look away. It makes me want to go eat more meat to perpetuate balance in the world. Also, your self-righteous grandstanding would gain probably gain a little more legitimacy in my eyes if you weren't wearing leather jackets while protesting. Even annoying people should strive for consistency.

Have Your Cake And Eat Me, Too.

2008-01-07T22:11:00.001-05:00

I may actually be a professional wedding guest at this point. Every couple weeks, it seems, I am invited to participate in or attend a ceremony in which I am legally banned from participating. No matter how sane, cool or calm the bride is on the day of the wedding, she no doubt has experienced a couple moments of megalomania and psychosis that make them so special to be around weeks before the big day. Did you know that their wedding is the most important day of your life, too? You will.

Don't get me wrong. I love my married friends, and I respect the institution of marriage for the most part. But I would respect everyone and everything that had anything to do with marriage if they all were like this woman.

How awesome/horrifying is this? Let's count the ways together:

1. She's honest. Other women try to conceal just how insane they are on their own wedding days. But this cake is the perfect metaphor for the crazy bitch bridezilla. Just how much is this day all about her? Ask her and she'll tell you to eat her. Literally.

2. This cake has been a dream of hers for years. Yes, she has had a lifelong dream to have a lifesize wedding cake. CNN says that she sadly never had her other dream come true--receiving a life-size doll in her likeness. That shit is straight up porny.) Some girls dream of horse-drawn carriages and silk canopies. This woman just wanted dessert that looked like her that she could eat for a week. Dream big, y'all!

3. Is there a part of the wedding that guests care about less than the cake? Her guests would have been better served if she hired an ice sculptor to fashion a frozen likeness of her wherein the bartender would pour martini ingredients in her mouth, and out of her special place would flow delicious potent potables. I need to get this idea trademarked a.s.a.p.

4. Her husband gets to hack into her cake likeness with a knife now, acting out all of his frustrations from the days leading up to the nuptuals. This may possibly save her from an O.J.-like tragedy years down the road.

5. Her dress looks like Vera Bradley threw up all over her in the receiving line.

6. Guarantee: this cake idea or my ice flume idea (see #3) will most definitely be used in a future episode of My Super Sweet 16.

7. The cake looks a bit like VH1's New York, if New York ever wore that much fabric at one time.

8. No matter what flavor cake is inside (please let it be red velvet!), it's just downright creepy.

I only wish that more women would take a moment to think about themselves in the months leading up to their weddings, like Chidi Ogbuta. Self-obsession has never been so delicious.

Sounds of 2007, Cheater Style

2007-12-31T15:28:00.001-05:00

So here are my favorite songs of the year. I wish that I could explain my criteria, but there are none, really. It's just how I feel, yo. The list would be completely different a few moments from now, and I will probably change my mind about the order or inclusion of songs as soon as I post this. But that's not important. Here's is an aural snapshot (no such thing, right?) of my 2007.

Here are the very important caveats: They didn't have to be singles or even have been commercially released this year, indeed there are some tracks that are b-sides or album only tracks. They couldn't have been from what I perceived to be previous years (for example: The Shins' "Phantom Limb", "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse or "Young Folks" by Peter Bjorn and John aren't here because I heard them in and associate them with 2006, but "With Every Heartbeat" by Kleerup and "City" by Lo-Fi-Fnk are here because they just FEEL like 2007 to me). I tried to keep one entry per artist on the list, but if I really liked 2 songs by an artist, I just lumped them together. It works better in some cases (LCD Soundsystem) than others (Arcade Fire). Yes, all of that is cheating, but I make the rules.

Songs by Nelly Furtado, Maroon 5, VHS or Beta, Alison Krause and Robert Plant and Metro Station narrowly missed the list, and "The Way I Are" by Timbaland was not included because its grammatically incorrect name offends me so profoundly. It's a great song, though. A special shout-out to the Marv who gave me so many musical suggestions this year through his powers of persuasion. Some of them were actually quite good.

One should also know that I am more of a "singles" person than an "album" person. I rarely listen to an album straight through without getting sick of the artist, but I very much enjoyed the efforts from Radiohead (In Rainbows was my favorite Radiohead album since OK Computer), Spoon, Arcade Fire, LCD Soundsystem, Mark Ronson, Feist, Amy Winehouse and Lily Allen. These artists are all represented below, and the tracks I listed could easily be substituted for others on their albums.

At one point, I thought about including commentary, but this list looks so pretty and orderly without it. If you have any questions/think I am insane for including or missing a song, please let me know. I would guess that you are wrong. Enjoy. Let the debate start here.

1. "The Underdog" – Spoon.

2. "With Every Heartbeat"—Kleerup feat. Robyn

3. "Umbrella" - Rihanna

4. "I Feel It All"/ "My Moon My Man"/ "1,2,3,4" - Feist

5. "Ankle Injuries"- Fujiya and Miyagi

6. "Heimaldsgate Like A Promethian Curse" – Of Montreal

7. "Someone Great"/ "All My Friends" – LCD Soundsystem

8. "LDN" - Lily Allen

9. "Oh My God"/ "Valerie" – Mark Ronson feat. Lily Allen and Amy Winehouse

10. "Pogo" - Digitalism

11. "D.A.N.C.E."- Justice

12. "Paper Planes" –M.I.A.

13. "Golden Skans" - Klaxons

14. "International Players Anthem (I Choose You)" – UGK feat. Outkast

15. "Smokers Outside the Hospital Door" – The Editors

16. "Foundations" – Kate Nash

17. "Jigsaw Falling Into Place"/ "15 Step" - Radiohead

18. "Love is a Losing Game" – Amy Winehouse

19. "I Believe" – Simian Mobile Disco

20. "Song 4 Mutya (Out of Control)" – Groove Armada feat. Mutya Buena

21. "The Opposite of Hallelujah" – Jens Lekman

22. "Four Winds" – Bright Eyes

23. "Intervention"/ "(Antichrist Television Blues)"- Arcade Fire

24. "Violet Stars Happy Hunting!" – Janelle Monae

25. "Boy with a Coin" – Iron and Wine

26. "Fluorescent Adolescent" – Arctic Monkeys

27. "Music is My Hot Hot Sex" -CSS

28. "Kid on My Shoulders"- The White Rabbits

29. "Ruby" – Kaiser Chiefs

30. "Girls in Their Summer Clothes" – Bruce Springsteen

31. "Grip Like a Vice" – The Go! Team

32. "Timebomb" - Beck

33. "Dashboard" – Modest Mouse

34. "Straight Lines" - Silverchair

35. "What's a Girl to Do?" – Bat For Lashes

36. "Flathead"/ "Whistle for the Choir"- The Fratellis

37. "Atlas"- Battles

38. "I Still Remember" – Bloc Party

39. "I Want to Have Your Babies" – Natasha Bedingfield

40. "Grace Kelly" - Mika

41. "About You Now" - Sugababes

42. "Girlfriend (remix)" – Avril Lavigne feat. Lil'Mama.

43. "You! Me! Dancing!" – Los Campesinos

44. "Discotech"- Young Love

45. "Lovestoned" – Justin Timberlake

46. "The Takeover, The Break's Over" – Fall Out Boy

47. "City" Lo-Fi-Fnk

48. "Roscoe" - Midlake

49. "Like a Boy" Ciara

50. "Can I Get Get Get"- Junior Senior

Profiles In Courage

2007-12-27T18:37:00.000-05:00

It was a sad day for world politics and democracy at large today, as Benazir Bhutto was assassinated in a suicide bombing that killed her and at least 20 others at a political rally. She was the first female Prime Minister of a country in the Muslim world. She was no saint, flawed by allegations of corruption and other family problems during her stint as Prime Minister. More notably, she could have just rested on her laurels as an heiress of a wealthy family, but instead spent her life trying to affect change in one of the world’s most strategically important countries.

After ending her self-imposed exile and returning to Pakistan under dangerous conditions, including many death threats from current government (installed by the United States. Thanks, George!), she began to rally the people of her country to press forward for democracy. She did this under house arrest at times, while government-sanctioned military forces stood outside her door or disrupted her motorcade. She did this in a place where a woman's role is rarely at the forefront of political movements. Her death potentially leaves open the door for chaos in a country where bedlam and confusion are de rigueur.

But more even importantly than this on a world scale, Heidi totally called off her wedding to Spencer on the Hills! You guys, I know! Where as some women who think they are so important would just stay in their houses all day while the military waited outside, Heidi stood up to the bullies that tormented her and got a new nose and titties. Take that, bullies!

Plus, Heidi did all of this while a.) under constant supervision from television cameras as she lived out her totally real life and b.) while her former best friend forever wouldn’t even give her the time of day. The only solace I can take in Heidi’s case is that she’s still going to give her relationship with Spencer a chance. Also, was Bhutto under the extreme pressure of recording a hit dance single while she was fighting for democracy. Our searches on youtube indicate that she felt no such anxiety. Boring!

Today may be a dark day for democracy and progressive women making their mark in the world, but it’s a little bit brighter knowing that there are profiles in courage like Heidi out there for the next generation of young ladies to emulate.

P.S. I would have talked more about Bhutto’s remarkable life and impact on the world, but she didn’t have a myspace page or a television show where she pretended to be bisexual while looking like a shriveled pea with implants. So, asking around, it was difficult to find any more information about her.

Sing for peace, Heidi!

30 Rock

2007-12-22T00:01:00.000-05:00

Dear You Guys:

So I am totally going to start blogging again after my year hiatus. I just thought I needed some time to find myself. Predictably, I did not. Some highlights of my life since last you heard from me:

1. Apparently, I have watched 1,053 videos on youtube. I feel like that's a lot.
2. I found a Korean on the street. If I cook for him, he washes the dishes. He also helps clean my house if I let him watch my Netflix movies. He is, for some reason, reticent about the fact that I will write about him from time to time. Not only do I think he secretly likes it, but it will also be useful to keep him in line.
3. I have decided, rather definitively, that I enjoy Australia's Next Top Model more than America's.
4. I have renewed my commitment to go back to the gym with sometimes hilarious results. For example, there is a huge bruise on my right hand at the moment. It is the result of walking into some machine that you use to strengthen your legs. (I have no idea how to use it.)
5. I turned 30. Holy shit.
6. I found a dead f*cking cat in my backyard. It was the most horrifying ordeal of my life. It will be addressed in a later post.

That's basically it. You didn't miss much. I will be checking in periodically with shorter posts. the audience in mind will be, as usual, me. I will again be elaborating on the things that please me, things that annoy me and things that somehow happen to me and only me.

I missed you! I hope you missed me. If you'll remember, I am incredibly self-centered. So, we'll talk soon.

Kisses, ZRW

P.S. As a holiday bonus, here's some video footage of Christmas at home last year with my family.

Best Christmas Song Ever

2006-12-19T23:20:00.000-05:00

There are some questions which require an opinion as an answer. To those questions, often one of several opinions will suffice. However, some opinion questions have a correct answer. This is one of those questions.

What is the best modern Christmas Song?

Answer: "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses.

Some of you might have said, "All I Want For Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey or "Last Christmas" by Wham. And you would have been close. However, "Christmas Wrapping" has no parallel. There are countless reasons why, but let's just concentrate on a few.

1. Baddest bass line ever to appear in a Christmas song. Right after the initial build up of sleigh bells and guitar licks, the bass player's fingers freak out and rip into the song. If you're not animatronic, your head will begin to move forward and backward, pivotting at the neck.

2. The drama! This is not just a Christmas song extolling the virtues of the holiday. This is a dramatic retelling of the annus horribilus of our heroine as she tries to get a damn date to work out. Every time she and mystery man make plans, something happens. His car won't start! She has sunburn! (In the third degree!) It's such a bad year that our girl decides to not celebrate Christmas. Can you imagine a worse end of the year? (Jews, please skip this question.) It takes Christmas magic and a coincidental shopping mishap to bring these star-crossed lovers together. Christmas is back on! Turkey dinner for everyone! Sigh....

3. It's the only Christmas song that it's appropriate to listen to all year round. Period.

4. A coworker and I discussed how we woke up to it the other morning, and we were both so happy to start the day. There are not many songs, Yuletide or otherwise, that can do that with such universal appeal. Sure, my sample audience is two people. But that's all it takes to make a thing go right according to Rob Base. Thus, I am right.

I need to go to bed now, and I can't come up with any more reasons beyond these. But if everyone could be as happy as I am during the holidays when I hear this song, then there would be peace on Earth. And that's what this time of year is all about.

Park Place, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Marilinda

2006-12-11T18:48:00.000-05:00

This just in! After living in Philadelphia or its environs for the greater part of the last decade, I am thrilled to say that I have had my first ever positive experience with a city governmental agency. And to boot, it’s the Philadelphia Parking Authority. (Yay, puns!) I am as shocked as you are.

It all started because I moved to a different part of town to a sweet little house nowhere near the garage where I used to park my hoopty. In case you’re keeping track, this is the car that had been running on 2 cylinders and had a melted ignition coil. This is the car that I was too inept to understand that something was way wrong even though it wouldn’t drive uphill for 6 months or so. Oops. It was time to move the car to the streets, outside of the garage where many Nigerians dreaded the sight of me. Mohammed (Momo), God love him, and his crew would have to move my car for me, jump it when the battery died and accept my late payment every single month. Love you, Momo!

As an aside, he would call around midmonth, every month, and say, “Is this the Zachary? This is Mohammed. Do you know why I call you? I call because you are late with payment. I don’t know why you forget, but you do. I am not mad.” And I think it’s true. If he did get mad, he never showed it. Would that we all had the patience of Momo.

So, I had an hour to get a parking permit for my car and get back to work. Chances of this happening were slim to none. And Slim just left town. I cabbed my ass over to near 30th Street Station to the Parking Authority Headquarters. My cab was driven by a pleasant man named Mohammed. For real, am I in the wrong religion, or what? Granted, he almost killed us twice, but he had a way of prioritizing efficiency that made my heart beat a little faster than usual on a Monday.

I enter a pleasant little office that looked more like a Doctor’s office than a bureaucratic claptrap. I was immediately waited on. There was no queue! (This is the word I use for “line” now that I am a Netflix user.) Her name was Marilinda. Ok, it wasn’t. I made that up because I never got her name, but trust me: she was totally a Marilinda. She was a squat little Latina, as wide as she was tall. She might have been my age or 50; she was ageless. Her plump head was home to a crazy mole on her left cheek and hair slicked back into a ponytail.

“Whatchu want?” she scowled. “I need a parking permit,” I cowered. We were going to make this happen. I was totally her bitch.

“You got 2 tickets outstanding” “I know, sorry.” “Don’t sorry me; pay them now.”

And then I did!

Blah blah, red tape, blah for about 10 minutes. She bossed me around, raised her voice when I got out of line, sneered when I got confused, but then we were done. At the end of our hasty interaction, while I was signing paperwork, she tapped her long press-on fingernail to the counter then brought it up to her eyes, and said, “Pay attention. I am still talkin’ to ya.”

And then I did!

She was forceful, efficient and not at all elegant about it. Marilinda was my kind of woman. I would have bottomed for her right there. Or not. I don’t know; I was very caught up in the moment. (note: Kidding. I would only bottom for Nancy Pelosi.)

I do a lot of bitching about Philadelphia here, but this was so quick and easy that I have to give credit where credit is due. Congrats, Philadelphia! And thank you!

Marilinda for Mayor!!!

Woooooooooooooo!

2006-12-05T18:16:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday, Little Richard!

Today in Craig News

2006-12-04T18:46:00.000-05:00

It’s kind of my not so secret dream to meet my soulmate on craigslist’s Missed Connections page. Everyone knows that, and I think more than a few of you share this sentiment. However, it’s difficult to go through all the ads, sorting through the crazies to find your one true love. So, I will make your life easier and find some crazies for you. Beware. Hairy forearms, medically threatening erections and a Buddhist with nice nips follow, to wit:

Dominatrix in the window of the CC Marriott 12/02, 1pm

I don't know if you check this sort of thing, maybe you do, since you are obviously in the adult industry

Anyway I saw you through the window at my office on Market Street (directly across from the Marriott) on Saturday- you were wearing a black corset and black underwear and black stockings and looked so good. I hope that you don't find this too sleazey, but I have had the hardest erection ever since I laid eyes on you. It won't go down, I had to call out of work today- I am not joking.

I hope you see this and contact me, I really want to meet you and see if you can cure me before I have to seek out a doctor.

You guys! There is a man running around the business district of Philadelphia with an insatiable boner, stalking an exhibitionist dominatrix. He also doesn’t have spell check. Let’s examine the many, many layers of awesomeness in this bloomin’ onion of a craigspost. Some woman is trying to drive men who work on Saturdays crazy with her dominant sexuality. He questions whether someone this classy would even check craigslist. But the best part is that this guy called. out. of. work. because of an erection. I hope he has a lot of vacation days and a good HMO. I would be broke if I solved my problems that way.

Lost Cardigan at Nodding Head

To my dear poor lost cardigan, you were my favorite. Now you are gone. Hopefully one day you will find your back to me.

(Plan black button up cardigan, with the top button having cherries on it.)

Again, with the spelling! But we are going to forgive her because this is an adorable ad. It could only be better if a man had a super, constant erection because of the cardigan sweater. I hope it gets returned to her because there’s something desperate and poetic about writing a Missed Connection to an inanimate object. I appreciate that.

Indian guy about 3 weeks ago on Fri. night in scrubs. - w4m

You were in scrubs with 2 sandwiches/ 2 drinks. It looked like you were on call and had run out get you and a buddy something to eat. You looked most likely of North Indian descent with fairly hairy forearms. I think you're about 5'6 (?!) and very thin, but I like that. :)

I was the cute blond in a black coat trying to think of anything to say without either sounding like a pervert or socially maladjusted. "Come here often?" "So you like the red Gatorade... oh wait that's for your friend?" "I like your hairy forearms?" Uh, yeah.

Me? I come to Penn's campus often. I'm successful in biz field and well educated with my own degree from Penn among others. So if you remember someone "breathing heavy" when you tried to pay for your food order... it was probably me.

So if you're single, drop me a line. :)

This is awesome. There is a little Wharton, blonde cutie running around Phialdephia with a hairy forearms fetish, down with the brown. Girlfriend was heavy breathing at Club Wa for Vishnu's sake. She tries to claim that she is not a socially maladjusted pervert, which she automatically is for preemptively denying it. She imagines a conversation wherein her fetish is revealed. And then she almost trips over the many academic degrees she subtly dropped into the conversation like an Acme anvil. She ends it with a smile. Psycho. Skinny, hairy Indians, watch your skinny, hairy backs.

mad hot sex in northeast.... best booth sex ever

..wo... totally hot man.. made passionate hot love for about 5 dollars worth of our timen friday night... u were amazing.. and cute.. and fuk.. it was just incredible.. cum everywhere.... it was porn hot ... chemistry rules.

all in a booth.. fuk man.. what a world...

anyway.. it took me a day to get that smirk off my face....

Besides the tenuous grasp on anything resembling the English language (it's from the Northeast; it's all good), this post is notable for the fact that he measured the time they made love in dollars. How?! Simple micoreconomics dictates, after all, that money is exchanged for goods and services. Also, if you sing this post in a falsetto and change the word “man” to “girl,” it becomes a Prince song circa 1986.

And now I will leave you with what happens when a big sexy, nipple-bearing monk strolls through the gayborhood. As you might imagine, it’s not exactly nirvana.

Raised Consciousness - m4m - 28

You were walking up 13th St. this afternoon practically bare-chested, wearing nothing but an unzipped hoodie over red Buddhist (or... Hare Krishna?) robes with sandals. You stopped me dead in my tracks as I exited a restaurant and I'm sure you noticed my dumb-struck reaction (partially to your exposed nipple but also because you were so damn sexy). I guess a guy as smokin' hot as you are isn't bothered by the cold weather. You certainly made me feel warm inside. I want to meditate upon your beauty, and I would gladly give up my leather for you...

Clever. What are the gay men's chorus members wearing these days? I love that last bit about the leather. Hey! I know someone who loves leather (see above), and he’s experiencing the worst part of tantric sex as we speak. Maybe you can contact him?

(Shout out to all y'all who helped make my birthday fun. I probably don’t remember seeing you, so just tell me you were there. I felt very loved.)

On Old Faces and New Ulcers

2006-11-29T18:11:00.000-05:00

Like a perfect storm, events in my life have converged to render me battered and beaten about the emotional ear, nose and throat. My Thanksgiving weekend trip to the Northeastern reaches of the Keystone state was bookended by the equally depressing, reality-checking life events called High School Reunion and 29th Birthday.

Ten long years ago, I graduated from Valley View High School. The school was as sheltered and idyllic as one could imagine, served with ample sides of trashiness and flannel. At the time, I couldn’t imagine ever sending my kids somewhere else. Of course, at the time when we had a girl threatening to come into school with a gun and list of people she hated, my mom told me, “Go to school, lazy ass. If you get shot, call your grandfather, and he’ll come pick you up.” Things were so much simpler then. I also had longer hair with the curls combed out so that it reached below my brows. It seems all of us had a tenuous grasp on the ability to make good decisions.

I spoke at my high school graduation, as the student with the highest average. My high school, purveyor of all things athletic, shied away from the term Valedictorian as to try to limit excessive competition among students. Those in charge of this policy were conspicuously absent while colleagues of mine were hurling dodge balls at my head in P.E. Class. I was told by the faculty that I was to speak about success. I wrote something up quickly, and then it was edited to a shadow of its former self. A more subversive student would have written something more interesting, but I went with the edited copy. I have no idea what I said. I would ask someone in my class what I said, but I know no one was listening. I know I talked about success and how its presence couldn’t and shouldn’t be measured by anything quantifiable or tangible. And blah blah blah. My mother loved it, but I think she would have loved it just the same were I reading from the Necronomicron.

Fast forward 10 years and a couple months. It is now my 10 Year Class Reunion. I don’t know why, but I was the most nervous I have been in years to walk in the room. Clad in a pinstripe business suit (to reflect my hard earned education and show off my blue eyes), I entered and my stomach dropped. I actually got a little dizzy. It was overwhelming to see faces from my past all together in one room for the first time in a decade: prom dates, rivals, jocks, nerds, band geeks, vo-techsters, the high school quarterback.

I did what anyone would do: made a bee-line to the bar. After a couple drinks, I got in the groove of the evening and gave the pat speech about my life when asked how I was.

Great, happy to be single, yeah, can you believe I am a lawyer? Neither can I sometimes. 10 Years. Wow. You have a baby? Do you like it? No, I probably can’t defend you. Etc.

A few moments stand out. One was when the girl voted most likely to succeed came up to me and asked me if I felt successful. I was also voted most likely to succeed with her; we were like a super nerdy prom king and queen. If this were a drama or Lifetime movie, my graduation speech would be highlighted here (preferably in sepia tones). It was a surprisingly poignant question for the evening. I made up some bullshit speech 10 years ago about this very subject. I talked about personal fulfillment, happiness not caring about things like salary or material possessions. I was naïve and 30 pounds lighter. Simpler times. I don’t know if I feel successful or not. I guess it depends on the day. No one told me at graduation that it’s ok to feel that way. The rest of the weekend, particularly surrounded by my family at my Grandfather’s 85th surprise birthday party, I let myself feel successful. I am allowing myself to feel that way for a bit.

I just turned 29, and there’s a lot left that I need to do. That's OK.

But for that night, I looked around the room, and it seemed like people were really happy. Everyone was smiling. Old beefs were put aside. We were just heavier, more mature versions of ourselves. (Ok, some girls were thinner—but it’s only because they were about to get married. And then you know they’ll gain the weight back. You know it.) We were happy to be in eachother’s company for the first time in 10 years. We were allowed to show off our best sides and present our own personal successes. And I found myself actually caring deeply what people were saying. Best of all, unlike 10 years ago, we could all go to a bar together after it and drink. Wouldn’t high school have been easier with bar built into the cafeteria?

How To Be Happy

2006-08-13T22:32:00.000-05:00

It's a delicate balance.

If you think too much, life is presumably going to pass you by. You'll analyze, squeeze the meaning out of something. If you're not careful, you'll impair your brain's ability to assign meaningful value to people, places, things and events.

If you don't think enough, the results could be even more perilous. You'll make yourself available to visits from risk and emotional liability. You might miss out on things you would find enjoyable, but you certainly won't have to deal with the unforeseeable, or worse, foreseeable consequences of what could go wrong after you experience some sort of pleasure.

After attending law school and being an economics minor in college, it's a commonplace practice in my mind to quanitfy things that shouldn't accurately reflect any sort of numerical weight. I stifle these instincts to attempt to appear to possess some sort of humanity. If used correctly, this kind of thinking can shield you from heartbreak. It's cold and clinical, but it makes sense.

It is not rude, it is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Of course to use that line of thought correctly, it should be coupled with a lobotomy and soul extraction. You may live without the burden of having a broken heart, but you'll end up sitting on the polar opposite end of the regret spectrum. Why do things have to make sense?

Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, they say. Who are these people? Do they really believe that what they learned from their relationship outweighs what's taken away when it's goine? Do they isolate the singular, unique experience as a victory, separating it from the net result loss? Do they not think that once the warmth is over it can only leave them colder?

Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.

'They' are aonoymous. People who make statements like that often are. But I know someone who does think this. She told me once when my first serious relationship ended that I needed to be thankful for the experience and decide what I learned from it. At the time, what I learned was that I wanted to be alone all the time to prepare for the rest of my lonely life. Eventually I came to see that there was some validity to her advice.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Love is patient; love is kind.

Better to have loved and lost...

What doesn't kill you...

This is not about me. This is about what happens when love doesn't work out for someone who never lived life afraid to accept the bad consequences that could occur for putting oneself out there.

It's a brave way to live. It's something I aspire to do.

But it's really nothing compared to the bravery of stepping back, stopping what feels/felt so good and deciding it's time to cut losses and decide what you've learned from the whole experience. Love is a choice you make from minute to minute.

Love does not envy; it does not boast; it is not proud.

But what do you do when you want to hear the everything is going to be ok and all you can get is a God damned cliche?

Cliches are cliche for a reason.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.

Of Human Bonding

2006-06-19T17:26:00.000-05:00

This weekend was the bachelor party of my future brother-in-law. My brother and I hopped in his big, red truck and headed off to Dirty Jerz to a condo chock full of my brother-in-law and his closest high school, college and gym friends. My sophomore year of high school, I was inducted into the National Honors Society where I took a vow, while holding a candle, to always continue my pursuit of knowledge and search for truth. This weekend was no different, so here are some take-home lessons from bachelor party weekend.

1. If your brother offers to pick you up and drive your ass across state lines gratis, then you best not doze off while navigating. Otherwise, hypothetically, you may end up closer to Delaware than the Jersey Shore.

2. No matter how heroically you dash everyone’s low expectations of you, you’re just not going to beat a guy named Cleetus at beer pong.

3. If you pretend that you are only playing poker for the 3rd time and you come in 3rd out of 20 players in a tournament, a drunk guy or 3 or 4 are going to get in your face and call you a “fucking hustler” in the style of Wesley Snipes in White Man Can’t Jump.

4. When married men escape their wives and kids for the weekends, they really, really want to make it count. When Sunday morning rolls around, you will be able to tell by the looks on guys’ faces who will be returning to a warden.

5. Inevitably, someone will find out that your work may or may not vaguely involve drugs, and he will present to you, in graphic detail, that among the many side effects of his mood elevator, one of them is delayed orgasm. He will wink and tell you that maybe it’s a good thing, but he won’t mean it. He will ask for advice, and in the middle of your shocked silence, while you contemplate how many more beers you should have consumed, he will run down the street after what appears to be an underage girl.

6. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to hear how the man who is about to marry your sister lost his virginity. Possibly, it will entail 3-5 quick thrusts and an explanation to his prom date that she was no longer the big V.

7. Men will use the word “gay” as a pejorative; yet, these will be the same men who hug and kiss each other, tell each other how much they love the other and will flash naked body parts at one another.

8. Dave Matthews Band will be played with alarming frequency. Men will muse at his genius and marvel how they are probably the only group of men on the Earth to really, you know, connect, with him and his music.

9. It may not go over as well as planned, when in talking shit during beer pong, you tell your future brother-in-law that your sister’s ex-boyfriend was a much better beer-ponger than he is. In fact, the silence that follows may be jarring.

10. You may be happy to realize that you genuinely like the guy your sister is about to marry, especially as you realize he’s scared to do anything stupid in front of you. And then he does it anyway.

Meme, A Name I Call Myself

2006-06-14T17:18:00.000-05:00

You know the drill. The meme asks a question, and my iPod Nano answers the questions in shuffle mode. It might not be pretty, accurate or intellectually stimulating. But neither is this blog.

How does the world see you?
“Beware of the Boys,” Panjabi MC featuring Jay-Z

Will I have a happy life?
“Hole Hearted,” Extreme

What do my friends really think of me?
"S.O.S.,” Rhianna

Do people secretly lust after me?
"Time After Time,” Cyndi Lauper

How can I make myself happy?
"Since I Left You,” The Avalanches

What should I do with my life?
"At Your Funeral,” Saves the Day

Will I ever have children?
"Something Good,” Caetano Veloso

What is some good advice for me?
"I Believe When I Fall In Love It Will Be Forever,” Stevie Wonder

How will I be remembered?
"The House that Zach, I mean Jack, Built,” Aretha Franklin

What is my signature dancing song?
"Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before,” The Smiths

What do I think my current theme song is?
"There’s No Other Way,” Blur

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
"Justified and Ancient,” KLF feat. Tammy Wynette

What song will play at my funeral?
"Buffalo Stance,” Neneh Cherry

What type of women do you like?
"Vanishing,” Mariah Carey (hilarious)

What is my day going to be like?
"La Tortura” Shakira & Alejandro Sanz (also perfect)

Sometimes I Just Hate Myself...No Wait, Not Me. You.

2006-06-12T16:49:00.000-05:00

Maybe it’s the pressure of society, the constant jokes regarding sexuality and masculinity or just a general plague of insecurity, but I believe for gay man, in particular, there exists a sad malaise of self-loathing. I am just as guilty as the next Mo when I see someone another male acting in too feminine a manner. Really, it shouldn’t matter how anyone acts. But there are times when I observe others and think, “Damn, that is so gay. How embarrassing. That’s why people hate us.” Etc. Ad nauseum. Ad infinitum. Amen.

It doesn’t take Freud to tell you that the discomfort I feel that is caused by observing those I label are much “gayer” than I am is born out of insecurity and having to confront my own behavior. Subconsciously, (or not so sub-…), I wonder if others see me this way. Does my natural behavior make others angry? Am I making others uncomfortable just by being myself?

At work, someone was recently moved into our section and replaced one of my friends. He was moved into our section because he was a “personality conflict” elsewhere. He’s out at work, and quite flamboyant about it. He has paraphernalia surround his computer monitor announcing his gayness to the world when his movement and voice already do a more than adequate job telegraphing this to anyone with functioning eyes and ears. Actually, Stevie Wonder could see that this dude is gay as a clutch purse on Tony night.

He has a poster of a play that he went to see hanging up which represents one man slipping a wedding ring onto another man’s hand. When asked if he liked the play, he said no, that it was awful. So why hang it up? Just to let others know that you are gay? He audibly whined how it just wasn’t fair that the Senate was discussing the gay marriage ban amendment on the floor without any legal basis to his argument. We know it’s not fair, but throw in an Equal Protection argument, if you’re complaining at a law firm. Ok?

What’s not fair is that I let every little thing he does bother me. And I know I do it because of the aforementioned reasons. I see some of his qualities in myself. And I don’t like it at all. My usual confidence disappears when he acts up or when he asks me what I did for the weekend. I am out at work, but I try to keep my gayness as one of the least interesting things about me. (God knows, it is, after all.) He celebrates his gayness to the point of almost being identified solely for it. Do I hate that or am I jealous that I am not courageous to own my sexuality with the same degree of confidence?

I decided that I was going to give him a break and stop being so critical. I was going to be a bigger person. I was going to learn a lesson from him. I wasn’t going to be afraid to be myself in any situation.

And then I saw him writing an email about me while I was spying over his shoulder.

He wrote an email about me to one of his bitchy friends who works upstairs saying that I was a “bitch, too girly, that I think my shit doesn't stink and that I think I am SO clever.”

Yes, he's right, but there's no need to memorialize it in writing. He actually also wrote that I was ugly, but then quickly deleted it. THEN there would have been a solid argument.

Yes, in another email he called me a “cunt” because I didn’t say hello to him this morning.

Yes, he has a picture of a cupcake on his desk, and he was calling me girly.

Yes, I was spying on what he was writing. .Everyone needs a break from work. Oh, and don’t write emails about me while I am sitting feet away from you.

So, after careful consideration, it turns out that it’s not so much self-loathing.

I can loathe others, regardless of their overt sexuality, and not feel guilty about it. I can like myself the way I am and still be annoyed that someone is just too in your face about his chubby, annoying brand of gayness.

And most importantly, I have realized that I can totally criticize someone for being catty, scrupulous and unreasonably involved in my life without feeling at all like a hypocrite.

And that’s the best lesson of all to learn about oneself, effectively rationalizing one's rampant hypocricy.

Blame It On The Satellite That Brings Me Home

2006-06-05T17:35:00.000-05:00

Ok. I don’t gush often. Or ever. In fact, more often than not, I am in a steady state of “underwhelmed.” Like right now? I am barely sentient. But Friday night I went to see Radiohead, and I can’t even describe how good they were.

I had seen Radiohead once before at the Tweeter Center in Camden where I was seated 3 football fields away and watched large video screens of people who may or may not have been Radiohead. Seriously, they could have been marionettes for all I know. Between that and the contact high I was surfing, the concert was a bit of a blur. To top it all off, I was in the murder capital of America. Still, it was rather special seeing what is usually my favorite band.

But this time my friends and I were the beneficiaries of some sort of secret sale of tickets for Radiohead fans that occurred at 5:00 AM a while ago. I really don’t know much about it, so I will spare you making up the details. I just know I got to work, and my friend told me he got me a ticket. The catch? We had no idea where our seat would be. It turned out we were in the 5th row center at the Tower Theater in upper Darby (where there was this strange haze all over the building—we still have no clue what it was). You could practically feel the sweat dripping off the lads. If you’re into that. Which I am not. Nevertheless, we squeed with joy when the hunchback usher showed us to our seats.

Some observations:

* I thought that I might feel old at the concert, but my friends and I figured we were the ideal Radiohead fan age. That is, there were plenty of older people there. The exceptions were a set of brothers who couldn’t have been older than 10 in matching Radiohead shirts singing along to every song. It was cute as hell, if you could get over the fact that these tots had 3rd row seats. They weren’t even old enough to masturbate over this fact. Another: some guy had a Class of 2009 college shirt on. I don’t do math, and frankly I don’t care to find out what year in college that makes him.

*The man standing behind me, who looked exactly like Otto from The Simpsons in the flesh, was recording the entire concert illegally, as it seemed he did at every concert he attended. He was actually directing people around us to please be quiet for the sake of the recording. He even asked the dumb girl ahead of me to stop waving her hands so erratically. One odd moment when his bong wasn’t near his mouth, he flipped out at some little androgynous runt who was screaming too loudly. The crazier part was that these people willingly complied with Otto’s requests. My intimidating frame no doubt kept him from confronting me about my dancing.

*Someone, without a shred of irony, actually screamed, “Rock the House!”

*Thom Yorke is sexy. He’s not at all good looking, but the man is sexy. I can’t explain it.

*The song selection was amazing. They actually played Black Star, which they never play. It’s one of my two favorite songs by them, so I totally geeked out. The highlights for me were that, Let Down, Idioteque, Everything in its Right Place and The Bends. If they also played Just, I don't know what I would have done.

Now, to get back to my normal personality: It was probably the best concert I have ever been to, and I am a bit sad knowing that I will likely never have it that good at a concert again.

I Am Going to Hell, Part 498

2006-06-01T17:41:00.000-05:00

I have been told many times that I am going to hell. That should come as no surprise. It rarely happens to me in a professional environment, but my wanton blasphemy cannot be contained to social situations. Apparently.

One of my esteemed coworkers (Let’s call her G.) is by most people’s standards a sweetheart. She may or may not be partially deaf in both ears. She wears hearing aids in both, but even when they are removed, she seems to have just enough good hearing to gather all of the office gossip you don’t want her to head. However, whether it’s part of her elaborate ruse or not, she screams when she talks. She listens to her headphones at a decibel level that allows all of her neighbors to enjoy her almost daily freak out to “Glamorous Life” by Sheila E. It’s loud, y’all. I thought that she was about 60 years old until another coworker told me that she was about 40. The matching concept for her attire would be best explained away by color-blindness, but I am afraid she is just what nice people would call eclectic.

She’s basically harmless, save for her penchant for chewing with her mouth open; that kills me.

I can’t put it any more delicately than to say she is a Jesus Freak. I know this because I am privy to her end of every cell phone conversation she shouts. She talks about how Christ does everything for her but make her dinner. She cavorts for hours on the phone about church picnics, what scriptures she heard on television the night before and most importantly about the sovereign enemy of all that is Christian, The DaVinci Code.

As an aside, I have read and hated the Code. I thought it was crappy writing about an interesting, if contrived, set of events. In many ways it was clever. (The Holy Grail’s a chick! Why didn’t Monty Python think of that?!) It even made for some clever tv shows on the Discovery Channel. And yes, his research/plagiarism is impeccable. But overall? It’s hack fodder that panders to the least common denominator. I don’t care if you think me a snob or a communist for not liking it. A friend of mine summed my feelings up about it perfectly: Can you believe Dan Brown made that much money using the word ‘suddenly’ in every paragraph? I did that shit in 5th Grade, and my teacher totally called me on it.

Example: Suddenly, when faced with the option to buy a croissant, Robert Langdon remembered that in Cryptography school he had taken a class that taught him that no matter what Catholics were trying to hide, monetary units could be exchanged for goods and services. This information would come in handy when Langdon wanted to buy his precocious, over-educated, French damsel in distress a Mona Lisa t-shirt from the Louvre gift shop. Or….would it?

At no point did I have problems with fictional representation of Jesus as a family man who got it on with a red-headed whore. However, my coworker did.

A few weeks ago she walked past my desk one day, and apparently there was something DaVinci-related on my monitor screen. She asked me, “You gonna see that?!” The sheer volume of the question nearly knocked me out of my chair. “See what?” I relpied.

“That DaVinci thing? I can’t believe they are even showing that in the movies.”

Me: “Oh. Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I read the book and it was shitty.”

“You know you are damn right! I didn’t read it, but I hated it. Can you believe they were saying Jesus was married and had kids?”

“Oh, I don’t care about that. I think that’s awesome. I just thought he was a bad writer.”

“YOU THOUGHT JESUS HAD SEX?”

At this point, many people turned to look at me. Were they wondering, did Z just tell a deaf woman he thought Jesus was a fornicator? Maybe. I don’t know. What I did know is that I had just accidentally started a debate that I didn’t care about. I would debate, though, because I do care about debating. It’s delicate, my life with cognitive dissonance. Really.

(whispering-Just assume I am always whispering.) “G, please. No. No. Whatever. I am just saying the book had some interesting theories.” I was defending Dan Brown and hating myself like I was eating the last piece of pizza in the box. In one sitting.

(shouting- Just assume she is always shouting.) “Oh, Jesus! You don’t even know! You don’t know he had sex with no one. He didn’t have kids!”

“Listen, I am just not bothered by the theories. The book is fictional. That means it’s not real. A good way to remember that is fictional and fake both begin with F. My mom is a librarian.”

“He didn’t! He didn’t! The Bible says so.” I was not even going to get into a debate on strict, scriptural interpretation. I only have so much energy and emotional stability. And I didn’t want to clean up the mess after I blew her mind.

“Look, G. Neither of us was there, so it looks like we’ll never know.” Ha! That was true. No one will ever know. I win! But then she just started to glare at me. Like I had just eaten the last slice of pizza in the box. And it was hers.

“I am going to know someday. Do you know why?” I nodded no. “Because Jesus is going to tell me when *I* am in heaven.”

Ouch. G just told me I was going to hell. It was just her way of saying “Go to hell” and predicting an almost certain future at the same time.

So, I did what any hellbound helot would do. I told her that she was going to have to wait in a long line to see Jesus. Good one! Sigh. So, I followed it up with a “People tell me I am going to hell every day, G. You’re like the 23rd person today.”

Epilogue: The next day and each day after she treated me as if nothing had ever happened. Those uber-Christians are rowdy but ultimately forgiving, after all. The DaVinci Code movie opened to middling to bad reviews. I still think the book sucks, and wish that America would fall in love with reading something good.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

2006-05-29T14:03:00.000-05:00

Yeah, it's been a while. Everyone needs a blog vacation once in a while, and I am no different.

I decided I would start up again for the summer with a more austere look. See how dark everything is now? So you know:

1. I am still employed. You hardly know anything about my employment lately, I know. But that only means that I have an arsenal of stories about people that are even crazier than at the last place I worked.

2. I miss writing, so I might actually have something to say once in a while. Maybe.

3. I hope my regular readers will be back on board. All 5 of you. You know who you are.

4. Things are going relatively well for me, so I don't have too much to complain about. I would love suggestions, though. Email me.

I Am the New Lucille Ball

2006-04-07T16:13:00.000-05:00

You might not think that I just stretched my foot out and stepped on
an extention cord, shutting off many computers and, more importantly,
erasing copious amounts of work just now.

You'd be wrong, though. I did.

Passion of the Katie

2006-04-05T08:02:00.000-05:00

In a shocking - shocking- turn of events Katie Couric announced this
morning that she was leaving the Today Show for the greener pastures
of the CBS Nightly News Division (and a salary comprised of heretofore
possibly uninvented numbers).

Minutes later in Philadelphia it began to snow. Coincidence?

Lesson: Sometimes when the tears of angels fall on a sad, sad Earth
that just received so crushing a blow, it can even snow in the
Springtime.

Godspeed, Couric.

Update: I Am Still A Jackass

2006-04-03T22:02:00.000-05:00

Remember when I used to complain about being unemployed?

Well, now I work a lot. I have been putting in long hours and not blogging from the workplace until I can figure out how to make it look better. The fact that the side of the paragraphs aren't justified really bothers me. And for some reason, that's how it posts when I email my thoughts in. Work, though, is good. The people are nice and the work is somewhat challenging. It's not what I want to end up doing forever and ever.

I also wanted to take time to think about the direction in which I want to take the blog. I want to bring it make to more personal stories and my own funny experiences and memories than things I watch on tv. Though, I will still talk about that, since sadly, it is a major part of my life. (That said, watch So NoTorious. It's hilarious.)

My social life has been constrained just as bit, as I have been trying to get to bed earlier and trying to exercise more. But once that phase is over, I am sure that I will be doing completely irresponsible things during the week. Right now, those things have been basically saved for the weekend. In order to maintain balance, I have tried to act much more irresponsibly on the weekends. That way I can be just as much of a jackass in a compressed amount of time.

I also don't know if I like the way the blog looks, so I may be experimenting with different backgrounds and stuff until I find something that grabs me. If someone wants to design me something amazing for free and then teach me how to use it, I would be grateful. I couldn't compensate you with anything more than a smile and martini.

Oh, and before I get to bed, this whole NCAA Tournament has been amazing. It's a shame that the final game is on right now, and I couldn't give a shit who wins. Now I know how my other gay friends feel all the time.

I Shouldn't Speak To People Who Don't Already Know Me

2006-03-20T13:55:00.000-05:00

While discussing the vitally important series E! True Hollywood Story
at work, the following conversation took place:

Co-worker: MacKenzie Phillips was out all night at parties when she
was 15 years old.

Me: God, when I was 15 I think I was playing with legos. Or I was in
braces and reading the Diary of Anne Frank.

Co-worker: You must have really felt for her.

Me: Well, my braces certainly made me feel trapped and isolated.

(awkward pause)

Me: (softly) Sorry I just compared my orthodontic history with the Holocaust.

Co-worker: Yeah, I thought that was a bit weird.

Me: I am going to go to lunch.

And....Scene.

There Has To Be a Morning After

2006-03-17T11:02:00.000-05:00

So, I called Iona correctly. But that was about it. Seriously.

My bracket has been a BUST, and the embarrassment is compounded
by the fact that my Nigerian friend at work who doesn't "understand
basketball" is kicking my ass in, like, 7 different ways (not to mention about
5 different indigenous languages).

But all that doesn't matter, as KC and I have procured tickets to the
Philadelphia
games today, which includes my lawlma mater, Villanova. So, that
means if you want to see a number one seed lose to a sixteen seed for
the first time in tournament history, tune in today. Where I go,
trouble follows.

The only people more upset about my bracket than I was apparently were
the gays of Philadelphia. Walking home from work last night, I saw 3
gays leaning against the outside wall of 2 different bars, crying.
Listen boys, I picked Seton Hall for the sweet sixteen, and you didn't
see me crying, did you?

Pull it together.

My Bracket Loves to Get Filled

2006-03-14T22:37:00.000-05:00

My father and I don't usually have much to talk about. We've agreed that it's probably not best to talk about politics, as he feels that all my political beliefs have either been borne out of my deep seated and often fulfilled desire to disappoint him or just a phase. We don't talk about work too much because it stresses me out. And we certainly don't talk about what some people with creative license might consider my love life.

But all of that changes around mid March every year. My father and I both become a little obsessed with the NCAA Basketball Tournament. We fill out brackets, we compare notes and like in most other arenas of our life, we usually disagree about each other's decisions.

Last year, in the espn.com contest to pick the winners, I came in the top .04% of all entrants. There were about 4 millions brackets filled out, so I wasn't anywhere close to winning, but I swear I think it was the proudest he had ever been of me.

As you might guess, I didn't play many sports well as a child. I was more athletic than you're probably thinking, not some sort of frail wallflower; I ran and swam really well. But ironically, the minute you handed me balls and expected me to perform, I would fade like Roxette's proverbial flower. I read lots of books and sang in choruses. Yet, he was shocked- shocked- when I came out. My brother thought organized sports beyond cross country were for assholes. So, my dad never got that son who was amazing at sports. That's why he (with the rest of Scranton) loves Gerry McNamara. I call him the son my dad never had.

[Mind you, I was everything at my high school, part of every club, Class President, Valedictorian...so it's not like I was just hanging around filling up space, wishing I was as good at lay-ups as I was at Geography Bees. Just saying, that's for a rant, not a heartwarming yarn about the one time of year my dad likes talking to me.]

So, since we had connections at the University of Scranton, my father would take all of us to their basketball games. For a while in the 80s and 90s their basketball team was a powerhouse in Division 3 Basketball. We would even follow them around to playoff games. We once even almost got stuck in a snow storm following the team to South Jersey. This taught me many lessons, but the one that stuck out was that it's never really safe to go to Jersey because there's always the possibility that you could get stuck there. But trips like this helped instill a love of sports in me. It made me the kind of kid that was equally at ease watching ESPN's Sportscenter or This Week In Style with Else Klench.

For the record, I still love watching people do things that I will never have the talent to do.

Again, I digress. My dad and I talked on the phone for a while tonight about his picks (I haven't made mine yet, as I never do until the Wednesday before the tournament. He knows that, but he's going away tomorrow). He picked a lot of upsets, and told me which teams I need to pick as my upsets. We talked about how lucky I am that one of the two schools I have attended is a Number One Seed for the second time in 2 years. We even talk about how there's no S-sound at the end of the pronounciation of Illinois, even if an S appears there.

I sat and listened attentively, knowing that we were taking each other seriously, as we so often forget to do. It's a nice tradition, and I actually enjoy hearing what he has to say. And for a second, he probably forgets that I am not going to find the woman of my dreams after all.

But then he says something like I need to go with Iona winning in the first round. Dad, you can't be serious.

Sunday Night Conversation

2006-03-12T22:28:00.000-05:00

Interviewer: Thanks so much for taking time from your busy schedule to join me tonight.
Z: No problem. But nothing too judgey! I don't have to put on pants, do I?

Int: No. I wouldn't expect you to. How are you feeling today?
Z: I have to admit, I have certainly been better. I am way beat from last night.

Int: Hmm. That's what we heard. Why do you think you drank as much as you did at that party?
Z: You know, I don't think I actually drank all that much. I just drank a lot of different kinds of alcohol. It was a party; I wanted to try a lot of things! For some reason, I went from zero to wasted in 30 seconds.

Int: Well, thank goodness you didn't do anything too embarrassing.
Z: See, here's the thing. I was a bit obnoxious at times. I spilled a drink all over me. I don't know what it was, but it was pink, natch. It went well with my light khaki blazer. And towards the end of the night, I was only speaking in laughter and slurs.

Int: You were laughing?
Z: I know, right?

Int: Seriously. At least you didn't fall down a flight of stairs.
Z: No, but my friend did. I was too wasted to speak, but not so wasted that I didn't think to immediately take a picture of the fall with the camera on my phone. It's my background right now. I then had to run outside because I was laughing so hard, I almost threw up.

Int: So how do you explain the huge hole that ripped in the crotch of your favorite jeans?
Z: That may be the biggest mystery of the night. Sadly, I can assure you it was nothing sexual.

Int: What, there were no "straight" guys to hook up with?
Z: Cheap shot. Next.

Int: Don't you think you're a little old for this behavior?
Z: But I was dressed up all classy and shit!

Int: That doesn't make it any better. In fact, it might make it worse.
Z: It's not like I killed a homeless man on the way home or something.

Int: Not that you remember.
Z: Touche.

Int: Anyway, is there anything else new?
Z: Yes. Actually, one of my best friends just got engaged.

Int: Well, it wouldn't be a week in your life without finding out about an engagement.
Z: No, I am happy about this one.

Int: Sure you are. How's the new job?
Z: It's nice actually. The people are cool, the work doesn't make me want to kill myself.

Int: That's a high standard for you. Cheers!
Z: Thanks. It is harder to blog there, of course.

Int: When do you think they'll fire you?
Z: Sooner than later. Oh, I ran into someone I used to work with while I was clerking when I was getting money at Wawa the other night.

Int: Oh?
Z: He called Judge Fabulous the C word. It was awesome. And he said people were sad when I left.

Int: God knows you were the most super fun person at that place.
Z: Besides Sandy, yes.

Int. Of course. One last thing. Was DMX's skin really that perfect?
Z: His skin was so clear it was like a mirror. I was smitten and I wanted his dermatologist's number. That's not a weird question to ask a rapper, right?

Int: Not at all. Thanks for sharing, and hey, lay off the sauce for a bit, K?
Z: Sigh. I thought we said nothing too judgey!

Back In One Piece

2006-03-10T15:01:00.000-05:00

One of the many perks of starting a job downtown after a while in the
suburbs is all the excitement of walking the streets and wondering who
you'll see.

For example, while I was going to Wawa to grab my afternoon tea, I saw
a familiar face from college. It wasn't someone I attended school
with, but DMX, the rapper. I used to listen to him a bit in the old
days when I was more "street."

I passed him off at first, thinking that it couldn't be he because he
was shorter than I would have expected. After grabbing my tea a
second time, I could more clearly see that he was adorned with his
signature Ruff Riders diamond necklace. Not to mention, there were
plenty of women and men there clammoring for his attention, claiming
to be his "ho's" or "dogs," respectively.

I waited to say hello to him, clearly the palest of his fans, in a new
Banana Republic sweater and pants set, to boot.

Mr. D, as one woman called him, knew I stood out. He said, "Whatchu
want, my man?"

"I just wanted to say hi."

"You want my picture?"

"No. That's ok. Just wanted to say hello. Have a nice day."

"Um, ah-ight," replied one confused rapper.

So, now I can say I said hello to DMX. It should be known that he is
very handsome, he was very nice to all of his actual fans and his skin
was impeccable.

Ride or die, he often says. Today, I rode.

Test

2006-03-09T22:39:00.000-05:00

This is a test. I am trying to figure out a way that I can add
content to this blog without logging onto blogger.

So, if this works, there will plenty of brand spanking new content, in shorter, sweeter, picture-free dispatches.

Ok?

America's Next Top Teleconference- Part II

2006-03-01T14:38:00.000-05:00

Continued from previous post.

Susan
Susan, whose name, unlike Whitney, actually was Susan held back her own laughter as she asked since the latest winner Nicole was so "high fashion," what is the look they are going for this season...er, cycle?

What they said: Jay went off about how you have to be commercial, technical, a great spokesperson or Eva Pigford. Nigel broke it down so we could all understand and said it all boiled down to being and/or having "the face, the walk, the talk. Being an inspiration. A muse in the industry." Ken Mok, having only produced and never watched the show hilariously added, "They have to do everything, and be articulate. Basically, they need to be the next Tyra and why Tyra is a supermodel."

What they meant: She can't be blonde or able to read the fine print in contracts. And in the spirit of being the next walking, talking Tyra, this season there will be a rib-eating contest.

What I said: You can kind of tell at this point that Jay and Nigel think this whole thing is hilarious. Jay begins every sentence with, "You know, the interesting thing about that question is..." But then he never gets to the interesting part. Still, he's being really funny and a good sport about everything. Nigel is still hot as a baker.

Rich
Rich, the first gay of the evening, wants to know if Seasons 2-5 of Top Model will be released on DVD.

What they said: Ken Mok laid down the smack here and basically said that Season, er, Cycle One did sell well, so they sold all the rights to the show, his older 3 kids and his soul to Viacom so that there could be amazing, though sporadic marathons of Top Model on VH1. Jay added, and he said that, like NO ONE knows about this, but whenever he or Tyra go to a store to buy a dvd or 7, they bring a sharpie and sign random copies of their own dvds. He says this with the same guilty grin that I imagine an Amish man would have if he tried on a pair of pants with a zipper.

What they meant: Seriously, Viacom took my older 3 kids. Jay also was thisclose to admitting that also signs copies of the Mary Tyler Moore Show dvds because "he's going to make it after all." Oh, and buy Cycle One dvds, please!!!

What I said: Tonight I am going to Borders and signing everything I can with a sharpie "I was rooting for you. We were all rooting for you! XOXO Ty-ty baby."

Latoya
The sum total of my notes here say, verbatim, "bitch is confused." I think we'll just leave it at that, since I really have no idea what else happened. Whatever, y'all. I am admittedly not Christiane Ammanpour.

Nina
Nina is clearly stoned, but still fiesty enough to claim that SHE is Canada's biggest ANTM fan. Nigel and Jay both wag their heads back and forth at the neck to indicate an implicit "Oh no you di-in't!" But she did. What the hell are people fighting about this?! Her question? Why do girls complain that they never have their best shots shown.

What they said: Nigel, oozing sex, is incredulous! How they hell would these girls we drag in off the street have any idea what a good shot looks like. Jay says he always has the girls' best interest in mind, but really the girls have no clue what they are doing or talking about. Anyone watching says, Duh.

What they meant: No really, these girls are pretty dumb. And whiny. And they actually say that they hate the whiny ones. Once again, duh.

What I said: This moment is great because Nigel goes off and starts to impersonate the girls. He's very angry, smoldering even. Jay claims that he always says, "If it feels awkward, it looks good. If it feels good, it looks bad." You may remember that quote from Boogie Nights.

America's Next Top Teleconference- Part I

2006-03-01T13:52:00.000-05:00

To make a what deserves a long introduction short, I will tell you this: I was invited to take part in a "unique" way of reaching out to the blogosphere and fans of Top Model by participating in an "online blogger teleconference." The crack PR staff of Top Model basically wanted me and Matt to cut down on our harsh critiques of everything that happens on the show by dangling the notion of famous entertainment journalist in front of our faces.

Well, we bit. After all we were getting a chance to talk to Jay Manuel, executive producer Ken Mok and love of my life, half Sri Lankan dreamboat and noted fashion photographer Nigel F. Barker. Would you pass it up? I thought not.

So, at 8:00 p.m. last night armed only with my cell phone, a secret website with requisite password and a plate of cheese fries, I sat down to tune into the teleconference. The deal was that I was supposed to call a secret number and be put in a queue. I never expceted to actually be able to talk to the "talent," as promised. Still though, I lit my Our Lady of Guadalupe candle next to my laptop and prayed. While I waited for Nigel to pick up the phone, I typed notes furiously listening to the other callers and their penetrating inquiries. Picture me, typing with both hands and a cell phone sandwiched between my ear and shoulder.

No, don't. On second thought, picture Jane Fonda doing it like when she was in 9 to 5. That's funnier.

What follows is the recap of my experience, pieced together from my illegible notes and patchy memory.

Jackie
First of all, it should be known that Jackie could not get her shit together. it took her almost a minute to ask what an outside observer might liberally qualify as an interrogative. She wanted to know, despite the presence of Cover Girl of the Week, why America doesn't vote for the winner of ANTM.

What they said: Jay and Nigel both agreed that industry professionals, such as themselves, have their fingers (orange or otherwise) on the pulse of the fashion industry. Ken Mok was afraid that girls would feign nice personalities for the camera to try and garner votes. Also, none of the panelists know to waht extent, if any, that the girls are psycho hose beasts in the home environment. Duh.

What they meant: They are all about drama and picking a girl who very well may never get work again. Also, I believe that all panelists know when it's time to get rid of someone.

What I said: At this point Jackie kept talking about stuff, thinking that this was America's Next Top Jackie. It wasn't. So, Nigel hung up on her mid-question. Amazing. Jay, all frosty, laughed. I did, too.

Stella
This caller claimed to be Canada's biggest ANTM fan. Can you imagine a more pathetic thing to claim? Maybe Kazakhstan's biggest Skating with the Celebrities fan? She wanted to know why these guys thought the show lasted so long. Really? That's what she went with?

What they said: They said, without a shred of irony, that this show is about aspirational beauty and love and relating to women who go through transformations. It's all about metamorphosis. And they stay fresh and original because Tyra always asks, "Are we keeping this real?" It's like her Carpe Diem or something.

What they meant: Honestly, Stella, we have no idea how this lasted so long. Everyone loves a freakshow, and it's fun to see girls who think they're models be told they should never show their faces in pictures, that they have a snout or that they look like an penis-toting amputee that escaped from a mental hospital.

What I said: I sort of blanked out and started to day dream when Nigel talked about being hung up by wires and getting soaking wet all the time in photo shoots. However, I think you really could catch the vibe from these guys that they love to torture girls. And that? Is the reason I tune in. And, of course, with the small hope of seeing wet Nigel.

Next, Part II.

Make It Happy To Last The Whole Day Long

2006-02-28T14:18:00.000-05:00

Choose a band or artist and answer only in titles of their songs.

Band or artist: The Smiths

Say Hello:
Ask

Are you Male or Female:
This Charming Man

Describe yourself:
Handsome Devil/ Sweet and Tender Hooligan

How do some people feel about you:
Bigmouth Strikes Again

How do you feel about yourself:
The Boy With The Thorn in His Side

Describe your Ex-Boyfriend / Girlfriend:
Girlfriend in a Coma

Describe Current Boyfriend / Girlfriend:
I Started Something I Couldn't Finish

Describe where you want to be:
London

Describe how you Live:
Panic/ Work is a Four Letter Word

Describe how you Love:
Nowhere Fast

What would you ask for if you had just one wish:
A Rush and a Push and the Land is Ours

Share a few words of Wisdom:
Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others

Now say Goodbye:
You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby

7 Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Me

2006-02-27T11:18:00.000-05:00

A couple things you need to know:

1. I took a week hiatus for no reason at all besides laziness. Sorry about that. It's also been busy at work, and see #2.

2. Sometime in the next couple weeks I will be starting a new job at a downtown firm. I had an interview on Thursday, and they let me know a couple hours later that they wanted me. I am totally dreading giving my two-weeks notice today, as I know that it will be hard for my current employer to get by without me. That is, I will be easily replaced maybe within minutes. I would say that that's a prevalent theme in my life, were I not so self-centered and monomaniacal. You'll get info as I get it, but not enough for you to stalk me. A boy needs his space.

3. I was home in the Scranton area for the weekend and was shocked to find that a bar there was really, really fun. It had possibly the best selection in a jukebox I have seen in years, people were dancing on the bar and there was even a movement to get a "wave" going from one end of the bar to the other. My delusions of Scrantonian grandeur were brought to a screeching halt after I walked down the street to their only "downtown" gay bar, which left much to be desired in terms of music selection and clientele. However, there was also dancing on the bar there: a five-foot tall, butterfaced stripper with an ill-fitting thong.

4. My brother got engaged, leaving me the only unengaged sibling in my family. He strategically asked me to do him the honor of being his best man a couple days before he told me the wedding was going to be dry. Well played, brother. For reasons that I will never understand (bride's family's alcohol problems, religion, money and God's ongoing campaign to smite me at every opportunity being a short, non-exhaustive list), the wedding will be sans alcohol. And before I could even say anything, he told me that includes flasks. So, I, the oldest sibling in my family, will stand by my brother at the altar, single and sober as a stone, contemplating ways to catch a buzz at the reception while my brother pledges his everlasting love. I blame Jesus. And all of a sudden, I am the good son again. Wheee!

5. In an odd series of events which included someone actually reading this blog, I have been invited to take part in an online blogger conference/interview with the producers and "talent" of America's Next Top Model. That includes Jay Manuel and, brace yourself, Nigel Barker. Apparently, someone from the PR staff of ANTM thought that Matt and I were joking about hating on all the new faux-mods for the new season. They want to extend the purveyors of the blogosphere the "unique opportunity" to comingle with the showdogs. So, if you have any questions for these people, let me know and I will try to pass them on. Please don't ask me to get you a private photo session with Nigel, though, as that will be for me and me only. This probably means that Matt and I will be covering Top Model all. Season. Long. So, stay tuned!

By the way, I didn't get to post it, but our latest edition of Gay/Countergay regarding the amazing Project Runway reunion episode appeared on Nervous Breakdown. It consisted of him making insightful comments and me just emerging from a wine haze the from the night before.

6. If you get a chance to jam out at bar to "Eleanor Rigby" by the Beatles, "Tell It Like It Is" by Etta James or "Girl" by Beck, do so post haste.

7. I am going to see Belle and Sebastian and the New Pornographers this week, I think. Is it this week? Someone tell me, please.

More later. LYLAS!

Gay/ Countergay: Top Model Cycle 6 Snap Judgment

2006-02-17T14:06:00.000-05:00

Here are the latest hamsters from America's Next Top Model. MLC or one of his many interns from Nervous Breakdown and I have come together once again to offer our sage opinions about the losers of reality television.

This is how it works: You refer here to the pictures of the new girls. You read the commentary that MLC and I provide. We are not deciding now who our favorites are or who is most likely give Nigel Barker a hardon.

We are merely making snap judgments based on pictures, which is what the world of the Top Model is all about. And with Janice gone, someone has to step up and DO IT.

If you want to see this done more professionally and with pictures, go here, to Nervous Breakdown.

Until then:

Brooke, 22, student, Corpus Christi, Texas

TEFY: I believe she's taking time off from the touring company of "Million Dollar baby" the musical to take part in Top Model. But shouldn't they use stage fighting instead of letting her get punched in the face?

The NB: Are those those wax lips? This one does totally look like she could kick our ass, but, honestly, Apple Paltrow-Martin could, so...Anyway, this girl doesn't have a chance.

Danielle, 20, babysitter, Little Rock, Arkansas

TEFY: She kind of looks like the meanest babysitter ever in her picture. She would defintely cut a bitch. I will be much more interested in her if she throws a fit when some stank bitch pours beer on her weave.

The NB: Babysitter?! Don't people just leave their two-year-olds alone in Arkansas? Isn't that how fire was discovered? Frankly we would never let anyone with whatever that is around her neck near our little Madison and Holden.

Furonda, 24, student, Stuttgart, Arkansas

TEFY: Another Arkansas girl, and thank God for that. Remember Muppet babies? Well, if they were putting together "TLC Babies," she would be Baby T-Boz. Or she might actually juse BE Tatiana Ali. Which is a shame.

The NB: We actually had a Furonda in college. If she's anything like ours, she'll go far. LIke to New Orleans for an unfortunate weekend.

Gina, 21, translator, Tampa

TEFY: I didn't think that Tyra would ever acknowledge that there are about 3 billion Asians in the world, and one might actually be on the way to becoming America's next top model. She loves "Schindler's List," obviously vying for the Jew fans' love.

The NB: We'd like to congratulate Gina on being the first female Asian American not to call herself Susan. Unfortunately, we loathe the name Gina. So we'll be calling her Susan, as in "Susan has huge teeth."

Jade, 26, restaurant hostess, Philadelphia

TEFY: I saw 5 not-as-scary-as-hell girls in Philly this morning on the way to my garage, and one of them was smoking a crack pipe.

The NB: Wethinks "Jade" may be the first-ever CGI "Top Model," which would really be a nice "Mole"-style twist. You remember "The Mole"? It's the reality show Anderson Cooper hosted before he got the role of journalist. By the way, we will be calling her "Zsa-day."

Joanie, 24, sales associate, Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania

TEFY: I was sad to see she didn't list "Chachi" under her interests, but I have to love a small-town PA girl who loves "The Goonies" and "Futurama."

The NB: Congrats on claiming the Chachi joke, Zach. Sorry about your state having a town called Beaver Falls, though. Anyway, this gal kind of looks like what Celine Dion would look like if she ate. Fingers crossed that she's as certifiably bananas as Celine.

Beaver Falls!

Kari, 18, student, Brookings, South Dakota

TEFY: Obviously delusional with "What Dreams May Come," I think she's actually one of the daughters from "Kate and Allie." She's pouty and short.

The NB: Poor thing.

Kathy, 20, house painter, Brevard, North Carolina

TEFY: She must be really working the house painter angle because her picture is so boring that I almost fell asleep at my desk trying to think of something to say. Sort of like watching paint dry. ZING!

The NB: Oh no. Perhaps we "poor thing"-ed too early. Hmmm. Maybe the TRESemmé Hair Salon and L'Oréal Paris Makeup Room are still open. This one may be the first to go.

Leslie, 18, student, Higley, Arizona

TEFY: No joke for a second? Leslie is stunning. I would have hoped for her to be run over by a car or disfigured by acid in Chemistry class if she went to my high school.

The NB: She's not bad. But we're having a hard time getting over what may be the worst collection of names of any cycle of ANTM. Gina, Joanie, Kathy and now Leslie. We know you booted Janice and hired Twiggy so the spotlight would revert back to you, Tyra, but, really,
this is a little too much.

Mollie Sue, 25, waitress, Tampa

TEFY: Didn't I predict last year that sooner or later Lara Flynn Boyle was going to don a red wig and somehow finagle her way onto this show like she does on every other show? I didn't? I meant to. And I was right. Also, there is no way Filet Mignon has ever touched her lips.
Look at her in the group picture!

The NB: Mollie Sue??? Oy. People with two names can never be trusted, nor can people from Florida. She'll either end up winning the whole thing or killing a German family at a rest stop just outside of Kissimmee. Either way, Charlize Theron will eventually end up playing
her.

Nnenna, 24, chemist, Houston

TEFY: No matter how pretty, I would always have a hard time rooting for someone whose name consists of 67% of the same letter. She's being an "N" hog.

The NB: Nice try, Yaya.

Sara, 22, student, Davis, California

TEFY: I really have nothing to say about her except that she's waytall. And hopefully she's the dyke of the crew. They had 3 or 4 lesbians last year, someone here has to be one. Why not Sarah?

The NB: First off, we appreciate the addition of the "h" to Sara, Zach, and we're sure all correctly spelled Sarahs do, too. And shouldn't someone from California be tanner? All our LA friends constantly remind us how, whilst we're in the middle of a blizzard, they're getting tans. Fuck you all, including you, Sarah.

Wendy, 22, retail assistant manager, New Orleans

TEFY: Yay Indian. I am glad it only took Tyra 6 seasons, er, Cycles, to realize that there are more than 2 races: Bland White and Sassy Black. Yes, I know that Cycle 3 had an Indian girl, but they refused to give her a makeover and then booted her ass for having real-life
aspirations. That said, she looks like Maya Rudolph with Paris Hilton's nose.

The NB: Our final contestant is, indeed, an Indian and will go far because of that. Our money may even be on Priy...Wendy. OK. That's it. We quit.

Once again, Tyra Banks, doing a handstand.

4 Is The Magic Number

2006-02-17T13:04:00.000-05:00

Thanks, Gijyun.

Four (other) jobs I've had:
*Judicial Clerk
*Bartender
*Tour Guide
*Worst Bank Teller in America

Four little-known facts about me:
*My name rearranged spells "Hi. Crazy Claw, Ha!"
*I am oddly craving an Amaretto Sour right now.
*I have never been farther West than Elgin, Illinois.
*I was severely allergic to citrus fruits and chocolate as a child.

Four city airports I have been to:
*Chicago O'Hare
*Vienna, Austria
*Dublin, Ireland
*Malaga, Spain

Four favorite male actors:
*William H. Macy
*Jude Law (non-speaking roles only)
*Cary Grant
*Jake Gyllenhaal

Four foods that I hate to love:
*Hot Wings
*Tastykake Kandy Kakes
*Pat's Steaks
*Veal

Four web sites (not blogs) I visit daily:
*Myspace
*ESPN
*Television Without Pity
*Towleroad

Four things I want to do before I die:
*Visit every continent, save for Antarctica, which everyone knows doesn't count.
*Write a book and have it published.
*Have a movie or tv show made based on forementioned book.
*Yell at someone in a courtroom.

Four people to tag:
*Yos
*Nervy B
*Jacob
*Everyone I know has else has already done it. Topher on myspace?

VD Epilogue: Myspace Hates Me, Too.

2006-02-15T15:47:00.000-05:00

Just when I thought I would be alone forever and ever, myspace saves the day! Don't worry, y'all. Irina from Adak, Alaska just wrote to me. So, sleep easy tonight, everything is going to be just fine. Thanks.

What did Irina have to say?

Hello Dear Friend!
Still Single? Let`s start!
I have very much become interested in you.
I want to learn more best you.
Write to me on my E-mail address: irinalapina80@mail.ru.

I shall wait VERY MUCH from you the letter.
Write to me as it probably soon.
I in detail shall write about myself and send to you my photos.
I shall wait very much from you the letter.
Sincerely Irina.

It's almost like God himself or herself was reading my blog and decided to answer my tacit prayer/cry for help by sending me my own Inuit with a penchant for magical, barely intelligible prose that lands somewhere between Pidgin and Elizabethan. And her email address indicates that her first and last names rhyme. How hot is that?

Clearly, we are meant to be. Don't tell me any different; I won't hear it, and I won't respond to it. Don't hate; celebrate.

You've Got VD

2006-02-15T14:26:00.000-05:00

Humpday Asshole is on the way later today.

Blogger is totally misbehaving for me. Though, I should not be at all surprised that the gods continue their campaign to make my Valentine's Day week miserable, now using technology against me. Why not. Also, no picture. Blogger hates me.

Until then, here was the itinerary of my Valentine's 2006:

I get home from work, lie down on my couch and watch tv for a bit while coming up with excuses not to go to the gym. I went with: no one goes to the gym on Tuesday nights. In lieu of gymtime, I call for a double order of hot wings with a side of cheese fries and switched off watching American Idol and men's figure skating.

I begin to make mental, trying to come up with good V-day memories. After coming up with a hazy, if inaccurate 2 or 3, roll my eyes and stumble to bed. I pick out good and bad qualities of all my exes and rank them in order in different categories, such as sexual ability and conversation skills. I masturbate, mutter something to myself and then rank myself first on each of those lists.

I wonder if this is the first time I feel legitimately fat after a meal. Not physically fat, but just overall fat. I do. I read a book that tells the story of a fictional account of what might have happened were a fascist elected in 1940 in America. I thought I should read something light, you know?

I wake up this morning in my bed with an orange stained mouth, cheese on my shirt and my hand around a container of Wawa iced tea, after having a dream about my ex-girlfriend and her new clone stalking me at a ski resort. I drive into work resisting the urge to run someone over for fun. Make a mental note to kill Cupid before the new year arrives.

Snow On My Face, And Tell Me That You Love Me

2006-02-13T17:31:00.000-05:00

Did you feel it? Did you? That unrelenting pounding on Saturday night? It was white and all over the place; you might have even gotten stuck somewhere. You didn't even want to get out of bed Sunday morning. You just waited there in bed, hoping that someone, anyone would come and dig you out. And when you felt it, you got a little bit wet. It's completely understandable. I mean, when was the last time you had up to 12 inches like this?

Spring Break January came to an abrupt halt in the Illadelph this weekend, as we were hit by a Nor'easter that had an eye like a hurricane. Anywhere between 12 to 18 inches dropped locally, while NYC was pelted with a record amount that I don't care enough about to look up. And if this snow storm has confirmed anything, it's that the lifelong residents of the Philadelphia area are, indeed, pussies. That this is even newsworthy while Michelle Kwan was considering dropping out of the Olympics speaks volumes about the fair city. And it's not saying good things.

Learn to drive in the snow. If you refuse to do this, then please stay off the roads. Thanks!

Speaking of fun white stuff, Dick Cheney totally shot someone in the face. No, not that way. The outspoken NRA supporter Vice President shot one of his hunting buddies in the face and neck area this weekend, in what the White House describes as an accident. You probably thought that Deadeye Dick was kept in the bunkers all those times for his protection, little did we know that he was being kept there for our protection. That said, we would normally just adorn Dick with the title of Greatest Vice President Ever, as we would bestow that title to anyone in any profession that shot someone in the face. But we can't do that here because we can think of 3 greater Vice Presidents right off the top of our heads.

1. John Nance Garner- A Vice President to FDR, Garner felt that keeping one's mouth shut, whiskey drinking, poker playing, and understanding the legislative process were useful skills. On Garner's 95th birthday (November 22, 1963), he spoke to President John F. Kennedy over the telephone in regard to the upcoming 1964 Presidential campaign. He vowed to support Kennedy's bid as long as he himself was alive; ironically, Kennedy was assassinated later that day. Note: that's Wikipedia's liberal use of the word "ironically," not ours.

2. Spiro Agnew- Vice President to Richard Nixon. His birth name was Spiros Anagnostopoulos, but he changed it to Sprio Agnew once he realized that he could rearrange the letters to spell "Grow a Penis."

3. Aaron Burr- Probably the coolest Vice President ever, he served under Thomas Jefferson. Burr succeeded in actually killing a wealthy attorney, albeit a Federalist, Alexander Hamilton, with a gun. Burr gets extra points, though, because he actually killed a Cabinet member. In a duel, which is basically the most badass thing one could ever do. He probably had sex with Hamilton's wife right afterwards, though Wikipedia does not confirm that. Remind me to add that to the Wiki-page later. Then he attempted to take over the country with the head of the Army, who happened to be an undercover Spanish agent. Which is? Fucking awesome.

If you didn't catch the final episodes of Arrested Development on Friday, then you're an idiot. I really can't talk about it any more, or I will have to wash down that pill I just found on the bathroom floor with whatever I put in my flask this morning. I am serious. It was brilliant. And now it's over.

You can't help but wonder what a less forgiving God would have sent our way instead of this snowstorm for letting such brilliance fade away. Think about that.

Gay/Countergay: Project Runway "Makeover"

2006-02-09T13:07:00.000-05:00

In order to fully embrace each delicious nook and cranny of last night's shocking Project Runway episode, we at the True have joined up with the brilliant CEO of Nervous Breakdown to have an email recap. (You can see an exact replica of this transcript on his much better designed site). It's presented in dialogue form. Remember, with Gay/Countergay, you're either out or you're out.

The NB, 11:23 a.m.
Daniel V. went insane last night.

TEFY, 11:28 a.m.
Yeah, and I actually never realized how pretty Kara was. She had some really cute moments. I think Chloe looked bad mostly because she is 4'2''. I have more commentary. I need to pull it all together.

And sadly, I can see a Chloe, Santino, Kara final 3 now. You watch it happen. Ugh.

The NB, 11:34 a.m.
Um...I think I'll have to disagree with you on the Kara/pretty statement. Though, certainly, she should never have been in a jumpsuit like that.

Daniel has to be in the top 3. He's won the most challenges! See, thisis where shows like this start to really bother me. So Kara had a good night last night. Great. But she's never won a challenge. Clearly Nickis a better designer than Kara, but he had a bad night. Fine. But why should he go home? It should be like, Kara, you did wonderfully tonight but remember the "No Trespassing" from two weeks ago? We're going to have to send you home.

Anyway, Daniel V. got a little bitchy, too, last night. The flippant "Lucky me" on the runway was quite unexpected.

TEFY, 11:46 a.m.
There are moments when you can see that Kara has a very natural beauty to her. If she cared how she looked and if someone dressed her insomething that wasn't a mauve tube sock with glued-on accessories, she would probably be lovely. You can also tell she has a lot more personality than what the producers are letting you see. Which is why she likely won't be final 4. But at this rate who knows?

Chloe. We are over her, right? Even though she's going to probably win? I would wear what she made, sure. But if Nick doesn't have something just like it in his closet already, I would be shocked. At least it wasn't turquoise. Again. I would be curious to see her whole line because she doesn't show much variety for me.

Oh, and Michael Kors, fuck you. Like you would *never* wear a vest with a pink back. Puh-lease. It's moments like that when I am pissed to be a homo.

Daniel. Hi, you're 24. Get thee over thy self. I love you like the brother I had committed against his will, but you took Chloe within an inch of having to say "me love you long time." There have been several challenges that he won that could have gone to someone else, easily. I think he won the close battles because of his affable personality and gracious acceptance of criticism, constructive orotherwise. Last night he was wearing an ugly color, and I don't mean on his glossy Ann Taylor pantsuit.

One reason I think he might not make it is that I think the judgesmight want to see what kind of lines they would put out. At this point, have we seen basically everything Daniel can do? His youth andinexperience showed for the first time last night.

Santino. I think his line would be fascinating to see. One problemwith this whole season is that with immunity at stake last year,people were desiging to WIN. This year, people design just so theycan sail to the next round. That's one thing you can't say about Santino most of the time. He really puts it all out there. I think he's gross, a really reprehensible person on physical and persona-based levels. But he makes stuff interesting. That said, last night he was stupid and lazy and probably should have been kicked off.

And......I am a loser.

The NB, 12:06, p.m.
Yes, the two straight guys I watched last night's episode with howled louder than I did when Kors said he wouldn't wear a vest with a pink back.

Chloe. Over her? Hmmm. I did enjoy her outfit for Nick. It fit nicely and looked well put-together. She herself has always been boring, though. And her constant, CONSTANT repetition of "This my first time menswear designer" had me repeatedly screaming "THEY LIKE YOUR DESIGN. SHUT UP!" at my television.

Kara I just don't know what to do with. I don't know if it's the editing, but I've never gotten a secure feeling from her. She seemsapt enough. But eh. I really think "No Trespassing" put me over the edge.

Your thoughts on Daniel and Santino are mostly right on. I do thinkthat Daniel really does put thought into his designs, moreso than Santino. And I think it's been evident that that causes him toconstruct his clothes in a more careful manner. Daniel shows betterthan Santino. Though I think Santino is more likely, eventually, toreally create something stunning. He just needs to pull it together.

And, yes, Daniel's young, but I don't think we've seen all he can do.He's just beginning. That could be his downfall or his ultimate asset.

All in all, I can't see Kara making it to the final three. The only reason I think a woman could win is because a man (kind of) won lastyear. But I think the proper winner of this season should be Daniel or Santino. Or Tim Gunn for not shooting himself within three minutes of meeting these people.

TEFY, 12:28 p.m.
Also, I forgot maybe my favorite part of the show when Santino said that Kara's sleeve ripped when the 5 of them were jumping around and celebrating!

Kara's response: .....[South African wince] .........

The NB, 12:39, p.m.
Kara stood there like a fool. She might have been able to bring Santino down. It's kind of amazing how these shows actually do illustrate how people handicap themselves in trying not to hurt someone else's feelings. The goal is to win. Screw decorum. Doesn't Kara know about MySpace for making friends? Path-e-tic.

TEFY, 12:41, p.m.
It might also be that: 1. She's actually really nice. 2. She doesn't have the out-for-blood vigor that Americans inately possess or 3. She was thinking of a hat.

OMG, are you on myspace?!?!?!

Fin.

Humpday Hero: Shimmy Shimmy Ya

2006-02-08T15:34:00.000-05:00

We here at the True have been getting some complaints that we've been a bit too negative lately. Nobody likes a Bitter Betty all the time, so there we won't be picking on someone as our Humpday Asshole today. Stop pouting!

Rather, in lieu of a Humpday Asshole post today (we may move that to tomorrow), we are going to accentuate the positive. In honor of tonight's Grammy awards, wherein we hope Mariah Carey will have some sort of breast-centric nervous breakdown and give a shout out to her lambs, we will honor one of music's greatest pioneers. In addition to his contributions to the music world, this person may be one of the most amazing people to ever walk the planet. Today we crown a Humpday Hero.

Of course, this person is Old Dirty Bastard.

Forthwith are several reasons why ODB is perhaps the coolest person to have ever lived.

First, ODB went under many aliases. I have put an asterisk next to my favorites. Please understand that this list is in no way exhaustive:

Ason Unique
Big Baby Jesus*
Brother Osirus
Dirt McGirt*
Dirt Schultz
Freeloading Rusty
Joe Bananas
ODB
Ol' Dirty BZA
Ol' Dirt Dog
Dirt Dog
Osirus
Prince Delight
The Bebop Specialist
The Professor
The Specialist
Unique Ason

Next, he was a ground breaker. In February 1999, he was arrested for driving without a license and for being a convicted felon wearing a bulletproof vest. He was the first person arrested for this infraction under a new California law.

He came up with new and interesting ways to insult people. To wit, during a court hearing, he once called a female prosecutor a "sperm donor."

He was never good at blending into the woodwork. In October 2000, he escaped from his court-mandated drug treatment facility and spent one month as a fugitive. He appeared at a record release party for The W, a Wu-Tang Clan album. He was later arrested in a Philadelphia McDonald's, allegedly trying to order a crack milkshake.

He tells the truth. At the 1998 Grammy Awards, Ol' Dirty Bastard rushed onstage unexpectedly during Shawn Colvin's acceptance speech for "Song of the Year" and began complaining that he had recently purchased expensive clothes in anticipation of winning the "Best Rap Album" award that he lost to Puff Daddy. Before being escorted off-stage, he implored the audience, "I don't know how you all see it, but when it comes to the children, Wu-Tang is for the children. We teach the children. Puffy is good, but Wu-Tang is the best. I want you all to know that this is ODB, and I love you all. Peace!" And the thing is? Wu-Tang IS for the children.

He was an underrated master of rhetoric. On one of his albums, he asked this zen gem of a question, in a spoken word moment: "If a brick didn't know how to sit on walls anymore...what would you ask it?" Well, what would you ask it?

For that reason alone, he would be a Humpday Hero. For all these reasons combined, he'll live on in our hearts forever. R.I.P., ODB.

Black, Brown, Bubbly and Broken Bones

2006-02-06T15:58:00.000-05:00

Now, I am a sports fan and all, but the Super Bowl last night was BO to the RING. Honestly, when the highlight of the first half is a "review of play" by the officials' booth, you know that you're not exactly experiencing a barn burner. In fact, the game was so boring, that my friends and I drove to the countryside and actually set a barn on fire.

Even the commercials, which are usually a highlight of the Super affair, were lackluster. I can't think of a favorite, but I know that my least favorite was the one with the tagline "brown and bubbly." I won't dignify it by saying what the product was, but I will tell you that they were presumably not referring to either diarrhea or Aaron Neville as he was stutter-singing the national anthem.

Congrats to Pittsburgh, though. It's nice to see that some teams from Pennsylvania are able to win Championships. I roll my eyes in the general direction of South Broad Street as I type that sentence.

Besides the Super Bowl this weekend, I successfully avoided being dumped two Fridays in a row by going dancing at the mostly harrowing, sometimes entertaining, always ultimately a bad idea Shampoo. While there, I met a guy who asked me to dance "saucily" on the dancefloor. I was so caught off guard by his correct usage of an adverb when an adjective could have been easily, albeit incorrectly, substituted that I swooned and had to oblige. No grammar was discussed during said saucy dance.

Am I a loser for having not one, not two, but three separate conversations at a dance club about what "Code Black" could have meant in the then upcoming episode of Grey's Anatomy. Answer: yes. I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I started to really like this show. I love the sassy Black woman. I love the sassy Asian woman. I love the sometimes sassy White woman with the boobs. I just wish that the Zellwegger v 2.0 would stop squinting and pouting about Dr. McDreamy. Or do I love that she does it? Would I be doing the same thing? Le sigh. In any case, I was correct in guessing that a Code Black referred to some sort of explosive. Duh.

Feminism is not dead, purportedly, but Betty Friedan certainly is. I am not sure why Grandpa Munster's death is getting more press than hers, but today in her honor, I will actually put down the toilet seat.

And finally, today I had a horrible small talk incident at the work microwave. A man who looked like Little Richard without so much Jheri curl and wearing a Bill Cosby-esque sweater approached me as I was putting my chicken and penne pesto in the microwave. He said, "Oooh, someone's Mr. Healthy." Upbeat with his little container of Split Pea Soup, he was actually someone who could be described as "brown and bubbly."

My first instinct, since I grew up in a small town, is to be friendly with everyone, but I didn't want to convey mistakenly to this person that I was in any way flirting. It's a delicate balance with the gays, you know that. So I said, "Oh, nothing healthy here. It's full of fat." He countered, "Well, you sure do look healthy." At this point, my brain actually vomited, and I said, "I have to go to the bathroom." I left my stuff in the microwave and hid around a corner, Jack Bauer-style, until he realized I wasn't coming back. Once he gave up waiting for me to return (and not actually mmicrowaving his food), I ran to the micro-, grabbed my chicken and ran back to my office.

That incident is basically a current snapshot and adequate representation of my life. Sadly, on many levels.

Oh yeah, I almsot forgot. Cast Fetish. For reals.

(Day After) Humpday Asshole: JC, Not the Carpenter

2006-02-02T16:17:00.000-05:00

You know this guy. You've probably deleted him from your myspace account sometime recently.

If you haven't deleted him, here's some reasons why you should. We at the True suggest you add him as a friend and then delete him immediately.

1. Regardless of circumstance, pees sitting down.
2. At any moment may strike you with the force of a category 5 hurricane, as he is trained in the art of Tae Kwan Do, but against his sensai's sage instruction, uses his powers for evil.
3. Deliberately, not to mention eggregiously, drives around with his left blinker on.
4. Knows all the words to the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Starlight Express. Yeah, the one on roller skates.
5. Reminds you that his academic background is prestigious, even while dry humping you at a bar.
6. Owns four books about Mormons, and as if that's not enough, has only read 1 of them.
7. Once, just to piss off vegetarians, ate a veal-stuffed human baby.
8. Has a wing named after him at the free clinic.
9. Is secretly rooting for Santino to win this season of Project Runway.
10. Routinely feeds false information to Wikipedia.

For these reasons, and many more, JC is our (Day After) Hump Day Asshole. Jesus wept.

The Anatomy of a Rainy Weekend

2006-01-31T13:55:00.000-05:00

Ok. Here's what you need to know about the past couple days in my life. In the spirit of Cliff's Notes, I will provide you with a skeletal outline that will get you a B on the test. But you'll have to talk to me if you want to make the honor roll (which, mind you, I never missed, not once, in high school).

1. I got dumped. At a bar. While drinking a Corona . This was the jist of it.

Z: I wish you had called me earlier.
Him: I think we should stop seeing eachother.
Z: Oh. [swig of Corona, crinkled nose, frown] Ok.

I am sad about it, not even that angry. I hope that comes soon. And like going to the gym, it always hurts worst the day after the day after. One of my resolutions for Anno Domini 2006 should be to stop getting attached to transients.

2. Breakup plus copious amounts of alcohol plus fiercely loyal friends equals a bad moon rising when your new ex shows up at the same bar that you do the next night. (I have a lot of friends that are just waiting for something to get mad about.) As you might expect, I handled it with the maturity of an 8 year old and at one point started yelling something about my law school transcript. After a 62.5% lesbian dance-off/catfight, my chances of having a good night were pretty much nil.

While being pushed around by an overweight man on the dancefloor, I yelled, "What the fuck is this, Celebrity Fit Club 3?" I wish it were. Who wouldn't? I think that Tempestt Bledsoe and Countess Vaughn totally would have thrown down for me.

Aforementioned zaftig man later, I kid you not, ended up falling ON me. So, yes, Karma, I am picking up what you're putting down. It was another lovely, cosmic example of how my mouth writes checks that my cute ass can't cash.

3. I watched a special about the 20th Anniversary of the Challenger explosion and reminisced about being there. That's right. While all my sorry ass friends were having to gather in the cafeteria to watch the explosion on tv, I was in Florida with my grandparents seeing it live. Growing up in the funeral home, I was already a morbid kid, but this put me into morbid overdrive.

We sat in a Chili's parking lot and looked east to catch a glimpse. We saw the smoky trail ascend and fissure. My grandfather told me after it that it was a sensitive topic and that I shouldn't discuss it with strangers (By this point, when I was 8 years old, they had given up trying to get me to stop talking to strangers altogether. They could only hope to limit me to inoffensive topics). Upon hearing his sage advice, I talked to basically anyone that would listen to me about it. The man I sat next to on the plane on the way home from Florida probably contemplated suicide.

There are actual pictures (which I need to find) with my younger brother and me smiling and waving to the camera while the shuttle exploded behind us. It's a visual metaphor for my childhood.

4. I celebrated Baby Jessica's wedding. She, 19, allegedly married her "small town sweetheart" who is currently 32. I am no math expert, but hmmm.

Upon her 25th birthday, she will receive the benefits from a trust fund from people CNN labeled inadvertently hysterically as well-wishers.

My parents, after reading this news, began work on a time-machine so that they could go backwards in time and throw me down a well when I was 2. My parents would love nothing more than for me to be married and funded at the moment. Plus, who doesn't love to throw babies down wells?

5. I saw the 40 Year Old Virgin and it wasn't as funny as I thought it would be.

6. I am continually surpised by the levels of sheer loserdom I encounter when I attend a free poker night at a bar. I did that last night. I am then not at all surprised to lose to all of these people. I also did that last night.

The amount of time they spend thinking about poker is staggering. And each of them has advice on how I could have played my hand better. They use poker terminology. And I am guessing they rarely have sex.

7. These are my favorite people in the entire world.

True Enough for You's Unsolicited Help Line

2006-01-27T15:18:00.000-05:00

To wrap up the work week, we here at True Enough For You are going to dole out some unsolicited advice. It's been a while since our legal department was able to do some pro-bono work, and sometimes the need to give just becomes so overwhelming, it actually feels a little tingly down there. And besides, they don't call us "Counselors" for nothing.

In order to find people who need our advice, we did not pass go or collect $200, went straight to our favorite Crazy lightning-rod, craigslist. Let's face it, it "crazy" equalled "cute," then craigslist would be a bag of kittens with rosy cheeks, eating tiny cakes pastries with mini-silverware.

Help is on the way!

To the guy painting our hallway yesterday - m4m - 37

We joked about you starting early. Didn't you notice my eyes glued to your crotch? Why don't you paint the back of my throat white?

We're all for flirting with the help. Heck, sometimes we even let the cleaning lady catch a glimpse of Senor Winkles. And don't even ask why Nando from Comcast came to "repair" our "cable box" 3 times in one week back in October. But a painter? Really?

Painters are clearly insane. First of all, most of them don't even have real jobs because they are taking time out to concentrate on their "art." They live in their parents' basement and dance at the Khyber every weekend. Sometimes they even wear messy clothes out just to let you know how "artistic" they are. Ew! That Van Gogh dude cut off his ear and sent it to his brother! You'd be much better off flirting with the dishwasher at any local restaurant, espeically one of the Starr establishments.

Anyway, if you must go through with whatever odd ritual you have planned for your painting buddy, we would be remiss if we didn't warn you about the dangers of lead poisoning. For some reason or another, you want this painter to paint the back of your throat white (not the most slimming color and it is after Labor Day, just saying). Maybe this turns you on? We once knew someone in college that liked his kneecap sucked, but we never talked to him. Please make sure that whatever paint your artiste uses is low in lead content or you may go so crazy that the next thing you know, you'll be on craigslist trying to screw a graphic designer.

Stan

I get butterflies in my stomach when I see you and talk to you. I forget about my boyfriend when I'm around you; and I was so reluctant to tell you I'm taken. I know you were disappointed to hear it too. If I weren't so against cheating, I'd love the thrill of ravaging you somewhere, anywhere, going absolutely crazy together. Please understand that I do love him, and he is one of the only great things in my life right now. Also understand, I am incredibly infatuated with you, and maybe all we need is a little more harmless flirtation...

(and if the time ever comes when I'm single again, the first person I will be thinking of is you)

Maybe next time your letter should read:

"Dear Stan,

Hold on to your hat. The universe may actually collapse on itself at this very moment because I have defied the laws of metaphysics and found a way to be a slut and cocktease all at the same damn time. If you're ever interested in dating me after I break up with my probably awesome boyfriend, so that I can write lame craigslist posts behind your back, then let me know. But until then, we should "harmlessly" flirt while I drop it Cybil-style on your ass with all of my personalities. Regardless, I look forward to being single and lonely someday and wondering how it all happened. Until then, I will concentrate on my chlamydia (you want to talk about ravaging, yikes!), since, as aforementioned, I am a whore.

Or am I?"

Don't you think that would be easier? Please update us on how it all goes.

Looking for Lisa Vincaguerra AKA Val -or- Valorie Preston

Do you know her? It's important!!

Thanks much

Isn't it funny how Lisa Vincaguerra A/K/A Val or Valorie Preston is always in the last place you look!?

Try the pantry. You might have left her in there while you were unloading your groceries.

As a last ditch effort, look behind the couch. Many who say they have "found Jesus" say that he was there the entire time!

Janette

You're cute.

It sucks that you're such a mean bitch.

Both the person who posted this gem and Janette should contact us post-haste, because I have a feeling you're both amazing and we would get on swimmingly. Call us!

Finally, to the person who posted all the lyrics to the Smiths' "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" and attached to it a picture of poo, give up. Even if Doctor Phil himself worked here at True Enough For You, there wouldn't be enough boundless compassion to help you. You're the thrid horseman of the Crazy-apocalypse. Just give up now.

Need help? Drop us a line at our brand spankin' new email address:

trueenoughforyou@gmail.com

Maybe you could tell me why I can't get pictures to work today.

Humpday Asshole: She Ain't In My Bathroom

2006-01-25T15:13:00.000-05:00

There's a lot I don't understand about the world. In particular, there's a lot I don't understand about professional athletes. The NBA seems to claim the title of Most Reprehensible Professional Athletes. Whether Kobe's siccing his lawyers on a hateful smear campaign against an alleged rape victim or the Indiana Pacers are beating up [stupid instigating] fans, you can always count on someone from the NBA to make you swell with pride in humanity.

Sometimes the actions of these upstanding citizens send them spending a night or two in the slammer; sometimes they just get you the Humpday Asshole (trademark pending) from my humble little site. This week's Humpday Asshole is:

The 76ers' Lee Nailon

The Talented Mr. Nailon had to miss last night's game against the Sacremento Kings because police responded to a call regarding a domestic incident at his house.

Now this should be enough to garner Lee the Asshole honors, but no he took it a step further.

The radio this morning was reporting that Nailon hit his wife in the face. She then locked herself in the bathroom and called the police. When police showed up to Nailon's home, he claimed that his wife was not home. Not smooth.

Sometimes the cops can be a donut or two short of a dozen, but it doesn't take Lenny Brisco to figure out that, um, your wife just called from the bathroom. To make it worse, your brains are a pretty consistent match to your basketball skillz as of late.

To wit, Nailon has seen action in 22 games this season and is averaging 4.2 points per outing for the Sixers. That's about as much as Kobe Bryant scored in one night last week. Seriously. You know that if you expect the public to forgive you for domestic abuse, you at least have to be good at basketball.

If you're performing well on the court, then the fans will turn a blind eye to whatever you're doing to your poor wife at home. If you're scoring like Kobe, then fans will look the other way no matter what you're doing, whether it be eating a live baby in the middle of the court or, well, rape.

What's also awesome is that you made in salary this week what I will maybe make this year. And you probably don't even tip your hookers well, after liking it rough.

So, for beating your wife, lying about her whereabouts and just basically sucking the life out of an already pretty lifeless team, I deem you ASSHOLE. And that's only because I can't nominate you for instant extermination.

Also, I am an asshole for forgetting to pack a lunch today. On the brightside, it will help me maintain my Deneuve-like cheekbones.

Love Child: Never Meant to Be

2006-01-24T11:51:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I dream that I was brought up by rich, celebrity parents and celebrated for my good looks and genetic luck. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I look like refried ass.

I went to this website to determine who my celebrity parents are. Here's some of the best combinations:

Elvis Costello & Princess Diana:

Gary Oldman & Mira Sorvino

My favorite, if I were French, Alain Delon & Catherine Deneuve:

Plus, once I walked into a Wawa and the cashier told me I looked like a cross between Beck, Kurt Cobain and Cameron Diaz. But that's just fucked up.

We Want Pie! P! E! I!

2006-01-23T18:09:00.000-05:00

I forgot. It's National Pie Day!

Any Aryan Will Do

2006-01-23T16:55:00.000-05:00

I don't have much time to write today, but my home computer is being shipped to me as we speak. Godspeed, little laptop.

Swex Dwarf was as fun as I thought it would be. Highlights include, but are not limited to: hearing "Kiss Them For Me" by Siouxsie and the Banshees on a dancefloor, starting a fight on the street between two fellow, law school alumnae and getting hit on by many, many people.

I am not bragging. Usually when I go out with friends, social capitalism rears its head, and I land somewhere off of the demand curve. For some reason, probably the freaky clientele, I had drinks bought for me and pelvises thrusted into me all night long. These are not necessarily great things, but you know I love attention.

One guy in particular, introduced himself as Red. He had red hair, natch, and came up to my chin. I would call him a leprachaun were he cute or carrying a pot of gold. He seemed a bit out of place, but was having enough fun that he didn't really notice. For you, I present a simulated transcipt of our conversation.

Act I, Scene 1

[Fluid dance club sets the scene, people are dancing and making out, the protagonist steps up to the bar to get a drink]

Red: You know, you must be thirsty butting in here.
Me: I dehydreate easily, sir.
Red: Ooooh, I love Irish guys.
Me: [confused] Oh, do you?
Red: Oh yes. Where are you from on the Emerald Isle? I LOVE your accent!
Me: What? I am not from Ire....(realized he won't get a free drink unless he lies). Galway. Yes, I am from Galway.
Red: Let me buy you a drink.
Me: Oh heavens! I couldn't possibly bother you like that!
Red: I insist. Tell me about why you're in America.
Me: I came here for law school. And of course, to escape the potato famine.
Red: You are too much!

Indeed, I am too much. I am not even from Ireland. My family is not at all Irish; they're mostly German and Welsh. Usually, people mistake me for being Jewish, but this Irish thing was new. Anyway, I got 2 coronas and a vodka and cranberry out of being Irish for the night. I didn't even fake an Irish accent, but I did tell him that I loved Frank McCourt. I don't.

I justified the whole episode by telling myself that I was selling a dream, furthering a fantasy, not so much fabricating my background.

I stopped getting drinks from him after he asked if I liked red bush. I told him I had nothing against red bush in general, but I probably had a problem with his red bush specifically. Ick.

It was bloddy fine while it lasted, though. You heard it here first: I highly encourage lying to procure free alcohol.

Two Different Socks!

2006-01-20T16:18:00.000-05:00

I hope to have my computer delivered this Saturday or early next week...at which time I will be able to add links to the side of my page and blog more frequently than whenever work gets slow. For you that means more of me in your lives.

Fourfour linked to me without my begging or pleading. He does the best recaps of Project Runway and America's Next Top Model ever. He's a big online crush for me, so it's kind of a big deal.

Just so you know, I went to a cardio/dance class at my gym last night called Madonnalicious. It's gayer than it sounds. To make up for it, I hope to play poker and watch tons of football this weekend.

Also, I am wearing two completely different socks today because I am profoundly incompetent in the morning.

Ooooh, how about that Zachary from American Idol the other night. Right? He reminds me of Tatum O'Neill in Bad News Bears. And while you are watching the Trainwreck that is La Idol, try out this drinking game. Note that however much you imbibe, you will still be more coherent than Paula Abdul. But I mean, we're just shooting fish in a barrel now.

I always knew that Barbie, with her wildly inaccurate body proportions was a bit of a skeeze. That said, when given the chance, I would almost always pick a foreign man.

This guy is more Italian than Yos or Marcello. And that's pretty fcuking Italian.

After 1+1=2, the next most logical equation is: Jews + Rappers = Lawsuit.

Tonight? Maybe Sex Dwarf at Fluid?

Happy Birthday Crystal Princess!

2006-01-19T17:01:00.000-05:00

You've been waiting for this day. You had to wash down your vicodin with a shot of tequila last night just to get some sleep. It took all the concentration you had not to drive your car off the road and into a telephone pole this morning.

That's right. It's Jodie Sweetin's birthday.

And how will she be celebrating this year? Probably tweaking with Tina.

How rude! Get off the junk, honey! What would Kimmy Gibbler say?

It makes me recall that time I waited in line for minutes to get a chance to talk to Stephanie from Full House at the Viewmont Mall in Scranton before finally giving up and screaming obscenities about her and her dog Comet way back before I started college. *Sniff* I promised I wouldn't cry. I got an autographed picture of Jodie Sweetin that I kept inside my mini-fridge for my entire freshman year.

Otherwise...yeah. Slow day.

Giant jellyfish are attacking Japan!

Dolly Parton turns 60 years old!

Miss Virgin Islands needs to win Miss America!

Nervous Breakdown might get sued!

Janette? She's totally the c-word!

Hey, overrated pap, now in paperback!

Ok, that's all the fake enthusiasm we can muster for the day. Wait, one more...

Get well and Happy Birthday Jodie Leanne Sweetin!!!

Humpday Asshole: Haterade on Brokeback Mountain

2006-01-18T16:38:00.000-05:00

Humpday Asshole!

Today's honor goes to:

Larry H. Miller, owner of the Utah Jazz, bigot and movie theater mogul.

About a week ago, Mr. Miller decided to pull showings of Brokeback Mountain from his chain of Utah theaters. In case you've been living under a rock or hunched in the fetal position in the corner of your apartment for the past 6 months, you should know that Brokeback Mountain is a movie about cowboys who fall in love, mumble stuff and then anally sodomize under endless skies and gorgeous landscapes.

If you have not seen it, you must. It is a delight. It's won more awards than you can shake a phallus at. My only complaints about the movie are that there was not enough shirtless action and Jenn Lindley from Dawson's Creek didn't whine, "Gram!" once. However, she made lots of sad, sad faces.

But I digress.

So Larry H. Miller? He pulled the movie after being alerted about the gay content within. That's a bad thing, but it just makes him as ass.

He hasn't done anything constitutionally wrong; so, please stop your yapping about free speech, etc.

What he did is maybe worse. He's helped fire up the Christian Right:

The bigots at Utah Eagle Forum, that state's offshoot of the pro-family organization founded in 1972 by Phyllis Schlafly, were giddy over the censorship. Said President Gayle Ruzicka: "I think it sets an example for all the people in Utah and, like I said before, [Miller is] my new hero. It's such a terrible show, and it is such a horrible message. I just think (pulling the show) tells the young people especially that maybe there is something wrong with this show."

Yes, this would set a bad example for all those in Utah. I am not saying people from Utah are crazy, but pick up a copy of Under the Banner of Heaven. Plus, I made out with a Mormon once.

I just like to bring that up in conversation.

So this week, when asked about it, Mr. Miller slapped microphones away from his face like a petulant baby and bratted that he had, "already said what he needed to say."

For the sake of irony, his reiteration of intolerance occurred when a radio reporter approached him for a comment as he was entering a hotel ballroom to deliver a speech at the local NAACP’s annual Martin Luther King luncheon. Of course!

While you cannot see Brokeback Mountain at his movie theaters, you can see a movie about a group of boys being ball-gagged and dismembered, Chinese women cast to be Japanese (an Asian will do!) and Heath Ledger having sex with many, many women.

So Larry, relax. I can't think of anyone who needs a night in a tent with Jake Gyllenhaal more than you. Oh wait. Yes I can. Me.

Runner up: Dennis Quaid, actor/douchebag.

At the Golden Globe Awards the other night he said this while introducing a clip of Brokeback Mountain:

“Our last nominated drama tells the story of two young cowboys who met in the summer if 1963 and forge an unexpected, lifelong connection that proves the endurance and power of love. It’s a controversial film. It’s…let’s just say it rhymes with ‘chick flick.’”

Get it? He means dick flick!

Now, we're not upset because we think the joke was in poor taste or that it went over like a lead balloon. No, we love that shit.

We're mad because Dennis didn't ad-lib the more sophisticated alternative joke, calling the movie Bareback Mountain. Honestly, could Annie
Proulx have set you up any better?

And basically around here he's absolved for any wrongdoing around these parts for putting the liplock on his very male colleague in Far From Heaven and being near Jake in The Day After the Earth Freezes, or some shit. It's hard he's good enough of an actor to take those parts and be homophobic.

Another bad joke like that though? We won't be so forgiving.

We'll send you to Utah to catch a dick flick with Larry. And we don't mean a movie.

Komm Susser Todd, Maus

2006-01-17T16:56:00.000-05:00

How did I celebrate Martin Luther King Day? Well, I threw a party for the Golden Globes, inviting everyone I knew to dress as their favorite civil rights leader. For some reason, no one else showed up, leaving me sitting alone on my couch, dressed as Rosa Parks, holding a platter of cocktail weiners.

Anyway, I made sure to sit on the front end of the couch.

It was lovely to see Reese Witherspoon and those Gay Cowboy lovers pick up some Golden Globes. And its always nice to see Scarlett Johannsen's rack. However, during the ceremony, I realized someone was watching me.

It was a mouse. I think. I don't want to say too much about it here, as I am currently coming up with ways to evict and/or kill him, and like Brian Fellow, I just don't trust animals. The Mouse, named Thurman (rhymes with vermin) may be able to read this page, bringing my readership into the double digits. So, no secrets will be spilled.

I will keep you updated on what I wanted to call Mouse Murderfest 2006, but a certain Vegetarian (G) in my life has persuaded me to try and rid myself of the problem in the most humane way possible. I think he actually wants me to build a little play pen for him and feed him some tofu or something. That means I even promised to throw away the glue traps I set out to trap the bastard. We'll see how ling that lasts. I am not usually known for my humane side. Unless I see him plaintively staring out my window and singing "Somewhere Out There," it's probably not going to surface.

In other news, watch out Hershey! Mayor Ray Nagin is calling for rebuilding a "chocolate" New Orleans. By this, I can only imagine that he is trying to dethrone Hershey, PA as the sweetest place on earth. Mr. Nagin eloquently stated, "I don't care what people are saying Uptown or wherever they are. This city will be chocolate at the end of the day," Delicious!

"How do you make chocolate? You take dark chocolate, you mix it with white milk, and it becomes a delicious drink. That is the chocolate I am talking about," he said. Sweet! or you could do this.

Oh, and then realizing he did have quite enough crazy on his face, he continued.

In his speech, Nagin also said "God is mad at America," in part because he does not approve "of us being in Iraq under false pretenses.He is sending hurricane after hurricane after hurricane, and it is destroying and putting stress on this country," Nagin said. He said God is "upset at black America also." Ray, I know Pat Robertson, and you, my friend, are no Pat Robertson.

I don't even know what all of that means, but I am totally craving a black and white milkshake now.

It's Ben Franklin's 300th Birthday! (Don't tell anyone, but I think he's dead.) Philadelphia's got Benergy! And the worst marketing campaign for a city ever. Celebrate by donning wire-rimmed glasses, flying a kite, inventing electricity and insisting that the national bird is the turkey.

John Corzine takes over as Governor of New Jersey today. However, Jim Mcgreevey will still serve as State Fruit. Zinger!

Finally, do we think this person is my distant cousin? We share a last name.

Craig Rants: Seared in the Flames of Withering Injustice

2006-01-16T16:24:00.000-05:00

On this day that celebrates Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., we should pause for a moment and reflect on his dream. MLK had a dream that children of all colors could come together and play in a colorblind world. He dreamed that people of all backgrounds could come together and share ideas and insights.

If you slap a 100-point-maximum IQ level on that bitch, you're basically left with the Rants and Raves section of Craig's List. Then again, maybe it's just my dream to have a bunch of barely literate, functionally retarded people gather to express their oh, so valid opinions.

You see, my recall of said dream is kind of vague. My high school gave us the day of for the first day of Buck Season, rather than celebrate the King's legacy. Don't judge, how else would you be enjoying that venison kielbaba every Christmas?

Anyway, free speech is awesome/not awesome depending on which entry you read. Read on to be Free at last, free at last (from intelligence, class and proper grammar)!

Let's see what God's Children are discussing these days, furthering the dream of Martin Luther King, Jr.:

On abortion:

"If life is so precious and sacred, why not outlaw masturbation and force me to make a daily deposit into a bank? That's 'potential life,' isn't it. So are the dead skin particles in my bedsheets which we will be able to generate into life before long. Why not vacuum those guys up and stick them in a jar?"

Does anyone get the feeling that doesn't get the opportunity to potentially impregnate the ladies often?

Or how about a poem entitled: If You Can't Support It, Abort It?:

"Yo whats up!
dis yo boi raheim from fuckin two twelve knowhutimsayin.
I just wanna ring in on dis issue of abortion an'shit nah'mean.
Like on the real- i gots like 5 kids and dey wuz all accidents.
Now dees bitches want me to pay child support and buy pampers.
I mean like whut? I planted the seed Now i gots to pay?
Dats sum bullshit.
I dont even like dees women and now I still have to deal wit dem.
I hate dat shit.
Imma tell you like dis. If you can't support it- abort it.
Dem bitches be chasin' you down for duckets and I aint havin that.
Next time i knock a bitch up imma tell her to go to the free clinic.
Dat shit aint actually free- but its better than payin' long term for dem rugrats."

If only Robert Frost were able to weave his words around the topic like raheim. Johnny Cochrane would love the title.

Now you're probably wondering what people think about men in pink shirt. Cutting edge, topical, controversial, right?

Point:

"The color Pink is like dicks..
It's for chicks you silly faggots"

And the counterpoint:

"how can you say that after seeing how cute/adorable/hot jm looks in his pink shirt. with the collar popped up of course. i think he is so fucking cute. i don't drink but am thinking of going to the bayou just to meet him in person. he is lovely. so whatever your deal is.....FUCK OFF ASSCLOWN."

Ok, I can't get behind the popped collar, and pink is pretty much last season. Morevoer, I can't get behind someone who admits in public that they don't drink.

Plus, maybe it's time for the gays to take ownership of the pink once again. Thankfully, this vitally important dialogue has been set in motion.

What about racism? Oh, like Prego, it's in there.

"Google Martin Luther King....all my browser comes up with is.."Trouble makin *ig*er"

Also, "Wite People Suck." A poem which you can read here.

Horrible. There are about 40 posts like this all on the front page, which I won't dignify. I just wanted to call attention that studpity and racism go hand in hand.

What about historical facts? Craig's got them!

"When Christopher Columbus set sail today in 1493 from Hispaniola (now divided into Haiti and the Dominican Republic), he left behind a garrison of 39 Spaniards - in effect, the first true colony in the New World, predating Sir Walter Raleigh's Roanoke by 91 years. Like Raleigh's colony, however, Columbus's ended tragically. Indians massacred all 39 members before Columbus returned in 1496."

Hmm, interesting characterization of who massacred whom.

More importantly, apparently America's fattest tourists are coming to town:

"We want FRIED HOT DOGS! My wife and I saw this special about hotdogs on TV and they show a place (Ruts?) in NJ somewhere where they deep fry the dogs and I cannot believe there is no place in Philly or even PA somewhere where they do his too. Anybody got any ideas?"

They are probably coming to town in one of these amazing vehicles, pointed out to me by one of the 2 friends of mine who I know have dated a crack dealer.

Ok, fine one more. What is the dream really about?

"I have a dream....My dream is to get as much sex as possible. I can never get enough. The more cocks the better. Martin Luther King wanted equality, I want to be treated like the bad girl that I am. I need to be used & punished. Can you help a hot girl like me fulfill my dreams?

This is in or around My Thong"

Sigh. We shall overcome.

I Am What I Am; Not A Fascist

2006-01-12T15:21:00.000-05:00

See, family? Call me Pinko all you want, but I am not actually a socialist. However, I am close.

If you take this test, you can see which famous people you align with on a chart. And it turns out that I, like a constipated look of contempt, am smack dab in the middle of Hillary Clinton's face.

You are a
Social Liberal
(65% permissive)

and an...
Economic Liberal
(25% permissive)

You are best described as a:

Democrat

Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid Free Online Dating
Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Jolie-Pitt Rhymes with Holy Shit

2006-01-11T14:52:00.000-05:00

Well, it's Wednesday, and my interns just reminded me it's time for the Second Ever weekly installment of Humpday Asshole. This week's Humpday Asshole (trademark pending) was not as obvious a pick as last week's, but that does not make her any less invidious.

So, who does it suck to be this week?

Zahara Jolie-Pitt, adopted wunderkind of the stars

Oh my God, you're thinking, how can you pick on a baby? That's what you're thinking. But this is no ordinary baby. This particular baby has set into motion a series of events that could lead to chaos and disaster the likes of which Earth has not seen since the days of Napoleon.

Let me show you why.

*First you have to ask yourself why all parents decide to have babies. The answer, of course, is that the previous child just wasn't good enough. Obviously, Zahara could not live up to the hype of being America's newest sweetheart, so Angelina Jolie had to take leave of the pill and resign herself to the fact that she should just finally get around to bestowing unto this world the legitmate fruit of her loins. Were Zahara more affable, maybe a bit cuter, Angelina might have never felt this way.

*Another problem for Zahara is that her brother is super adorable and wears a Mohawk. Zahara is BALD. She can't rock a mohawk, and Cambodian orphan always trumps Ethiopian orphan. It's, like, a major rule or something that we learned in Model U.N. (Also, you might be thinking that if Maddox were a better kid, then they never would have adopted Zahara in the first place. Wrong. Maddox was so cute, that Angelina was deceived into thinking she could take the cutest kid on each continent for her very own little multi-hued Von Trapp family. Understandable. Look at his cute mohawk!)

*Zahara requires carrying, which blocks views of Angelina Jolie's pert bosoms or Brad Pitt's lithe pecs. Attention hog! Everyone is a loser here.

*Zahara's inability to live up to the hype has resulted in the creation of a super-child. Nostradomus predicted this right before his death. There are several ways this story can transpire. None of them is a happy ending for society. Let's take a look at the ramifications. This list is in no way exhaustive of the disastrous possibilities.

1. A child will be born unto Brangelina that is so beautiful, only the pure will be able to look directly at it. All others will have their corneas burned out at the very sight of the child. Does the earth really need more blind people? Those who are able to see the specimen of perfection will lose so much self-esteem that eating disorders will abound and plastic surgery will be as de rigeuer as dancefloor handjobs at Shampoo on Friday nights. Or so I have heard.

2. A child will be born that can never live up the expectations as the child of the planet's both beautiful couple. Society will lose their faith in a higher being and in each other. Wars will start. Famine will sweep the land. For more information, please see the Revelations chapter of a book called "The Holy Bible." Then a movie will be made about the dire situation that will likely star Dakota Fanning, screaming like a banshee.

3. Jennifer Aniston, justifiably depressed, that she is not Angelina Jolie will throw herself headlong into making more movies. What's your favorite Jennifer Aniston movie? I thought so. Again, wars will start. Famine will sweep the land.

Zahara had ONE JOB: being America's cutest adoptee. She was supposed to make it chic to steal a child or two from Africa. Now, we will have to listen to Bono yap about debt relief for another 10 years or so. Maybe our expectations were too high for little Zahara; maybe she did all she could.

It's not our job to think too much about that. It is our job to point fingers at others, no matter how unfairly. She may take solace in the fact that she will have a life of privilege about which you and I can only dream as super adoption lottery winner.

Thus, it is with a heavy heart and much regret that True Enough For You names Zahara Jolie-Pitt the Humpday Asshole (trademark pending).

Breaking: World's Hottest Zygote Probably Now a Fetus

2006-01-11T08:55:00.000-05:00

Just when the Hilary Swank/ Chad What's-His-Face break up had me thinking that love was DEAD, comes this news. I guess my candle-light vigil in the name of love paid off!

Msnbc.com confirms that People Magazine online confirms that some nameless people who may or may not be the publicists of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt claim that Angelina is expecting what is spectulated to be the world's sexiest fetus ever.

Jolie was not reported to say, "Sometimes I can't believe that I am the woman making love to Brad Pitt, but then I remember, Oh Yeah, I am Angelina Jolie."

She further did not add, "Suck it, Aniston!"

Brad Pitt uttered an intelligible, yet smoldering grunt, in what most likely meant agreement.

Rumor has it (Oh Snap!) that Jolie and Pitt were trying to become pregnant to add a white baby to their clan in an attempt to become the spokesfamily for United Colors of Benetton.

More details as they come in! But for now, in sum: Hilary and Chad, eight years, no kids. Angelina and Brad, about 6 months, 2.33 kids.

Awkward Moment: A One Act Play of a Family and Preferred Method of Strengthening Genitals and/or Bladder Control

2006-01-10T16:56:00.000-05:00

Act I, Scene One

(Dad, Stepmother, Z, Brother, Sister all travel home from an Italian restaurant in a nondescrpit SUV. The air is crisp, but not bitter. Flurries fall. The heat in the car is ON, the radio is ON, slightly audible, playing the playoff football game. No one in the car has an emotional investment in the game. It is but white noise. [note: this makes it DEEP and MEANINGFUL and borderline EXISTENTIAL] The family continues a conversation that began at the dinner table, in a tone more serious than warranted, about the state of the ass of Sister's fiance.)

Sister: He's nervous it's going to get a big ass from having an office job.

Stepmom: That's called the "Secretary's Spread," honey.

Brother: I always thought it was just called OA. "Office Ass."

(giggles ensue, as much laughter as this family lets itself experience)

Z: He'll have to do those exercises you can do just sitting at your desk. What the hell are they called?

Dad: Kegel exercises.

(stunned silence for minutes)

Z: (sotto voce) Please never say that again.

(more tense silence for minutes)

Brother: I don't even think that helps the ass.

End Scene.

Fin.

Jesus Gets Two Birthdays, So He's Really, Like, 4012

2006-01-09T16:40:00.000-05:00

I successfully completed the "Go Home Hat Trick" this weekend, making it three times in the past three weeks that I made the trek to the great white north to participate in some family sanctioned activity. Hanging with the family is not too bad. I mean, my parents have never struck me with anything too heavy, and they're always good for a laugh. Last weekend my mom asked me if the female date that I was bringing to a wedding knew if I were gay. I told my mom that my date wasn't headless and probably had a good idea.

This weekend I was home for the magical "One Christmas Is Never Enough" extravaganza that those crazy Orthodox Christians fool inflict on the world just to be different. We get it; you don't follow the Pope. My Dad, when it is convenient for him, is one of those crazy Orthodoxes. So, he summons the family home to enjoy a dinner of bland pierogis, fish sticks and healthy sides of passive-aggression, conservative politics and paternal disappointment. All of which are hard to digest, especially the pierogis. Afterwards we go to church to catch a large chunk of the three hour mass which is full of also hard-to-digest incense and Russian language.

Seriously, the whole mass could be a the priest making fun of my family, and we wouldn't even know it. That's basically the perk of going.

This year was different, though. None of the kids could make it home Friday night or Saturday morning for church. Personally, I had a date friday night with a couple of pitchers of Red Sangria at El Vez. I can't speak for my siblings.

Besides missing church, my father decided to take us all out for a nice Italian dinner at his favorite restaurant. My immediate thought was that he was probably dying. It was uncharacteristic. When I arrived at his house and he made me change my shoes because he hated them, I knew he was just fine.

We got to the restuarant (a Jessup eatery whose owner is known for his delicious chicken dishes and his love of living la vida coca, if you catch my drift. Sniff, sniff.) and had to wait for seats. This did NOT make the family happy. My step mother was fit to be tied. We were finally seated and then we waited 2 hours for our food! Two hours! We tried to get answers from our waitress with the intricate floral tattoo on her wrist and hand, but she, predictably had the conversation skills of Nell.

The whole time, my family kept getting me drinks, cosmopolitans to be exact. It's almost as if, after 28 years, they've figured out how to appease me and insure the omnipresent, palpable attention could be assuaged with a little vodka. Well done!

We ate our food, and everyone got along. It was an Orthodox Christmas miracle. My family did wonder, however, if I were trying to gain weight since ever since last year's mono episode it "seems like [I] eat everything in sight." Or is "that because you can't afford to eat correctly?" Hey, they tried. I can deal with whatever insensitive comments they lob at me if there's a vodka chaser.

Later that night, I flew solo to a gay bar outside of Scranton. Yes, it was exactly as creepy as you are thinking. I was popular with the older male set. They would come up to me and almost talk to me, but instead they would just stand there. And wait for me to say something. Each of them underestimated my patience and was met with a confused glare. Someone straight up asked me for sex. Which was totally flattering. Sure, he was 60. But still, flattery is flattery.

Oh, my computer died. We had a great run together, he and I. We got through law school, the bar exam, several dates from Friendster and it helped me play with my new iPod Nano that I love so much I want to have its iPod Nano-babies. Anyway, I am looking for a new one. Any suggestions? My desired qualities in a computer are much like those that I have for people: compliant, helpful and loves to be on my lap for hours at a time.

Also, I am collecting donations for said computer. And I can only repay by getting on your lap for hours at a time.

Today is the day the "New 2006 Me" starts. More gym time, healthier food, better attitude, etc. In fact, my price just went up.

Indian Giver

2006-01-05T16:50:00.000-05:00

Flux capacitors must be back in, because I just got a message on Friendster from Pocahontas. It read, as such:

hey honey

Message: heyya, saw you online and just wanted to drop ya a msg. i just recently got some pictures of me online (besides here on friendster;)
u can see them at sexywebcams4you.com/poca

msg me back when you get a chance
pocahontas

Besides the fact that girlfriend looks like Linda Rondstadt on the dollar coin, I could never engage in a truly serious relationship with anyone who spells so poorly. Plus, her pictures on her friendster profile were not very representative of the Native American Culture. However, I imagine the webcam she has set up is to offer insight into the strong traditions of the Powhatan culture. We palefaces need all the help we can get. For example, the only scalping I have done lately is with concert tickets. Zing!

At the very least I would hope her webcam experience would include a little John Rolfe, if you catch my drift. Grrr.

I have not completely dismissed the idea of getting in touch with her, as another of my New Year's resolutions was to develop a crippling gambling addiction.

And if nothing else, I follow through on my resolve.

Oh, and hey, if you're reading this...Happy Birthday KD!

Mine Kampf

2006-01-04T15:50:00.000-05:00

Today is a special day, reader! This post will mark the first ever crowning of the Hump Day Asshole. Every Wednesday we will come together and celebrate the truly vile, abhorrent citizens of the world that make feel pity for humanity, but somehow simultaneously make us feel happy because we are not that bad of people after all. The Innaugural Humpday Asshole is:

Ben Hatfield, CEO of International Coal Group:

I just met my first person from West Viginia a couple weeks ago. He seems very nice, but otherwise I have no special connection to anyone from that state that would ever make me feel "emotions" like "pity or compassion." And that's part of the reason why Ben Hatfield is such an asshole. He made me feel sorry for West Virginians.

Last night before I went to bed after watching Penn State pull off an amazing Orange Bowl win, I saw that 12 of the miners had been rescued. Huzzah! A miracle in the mines. I think a tear even made its way down Anderson Cooper's face when he heard the news. The beaming CEO said they were ALIVE!

The townpeople celebrated for 3 hours in a church, ringing bells, hugging and I would guess drinking moonshine, before finding out that there was a "miscommunication."

The problem is that Mr. Hatfield allowed these bumpkins to celebrate for 3 hours about how their family members had somehow beaten the odds and survived while he knew that they were actually dead. They were practically on the phone selling the story rights to Disney when the CEO told them that actually everyone but one guy is dead. And he's in critical condition. He did not add that he didn't like the look of the surviving miner, but he was probably thinking it.

The collapse probably wasn't his fault, but Ben, you knew for 3 hours and allowed people to experience false hope before telling them.

Honestly though, I would want them to get all that happiness out of their systems before I told them any bad news, too. And really, CEO's of mining companies, if nothing else, historically have been renown the world over for their boundless compassion. I think you should have just gone the whole nine yards and set fire to the church where the townspeople were celebrating. You know, just so they, like, GOT IT.

You fucked up, Ben. And for that you are the Innaugural Humpday Asshole.

Anyhow, some other notes. Philadelphia has been chosen to host Justice Sunday Part III. Phillyist.com says:

"Justice Sunday strives to convince us all that judicial activists - such as the Bush-appointed conservative Republican judge who recently ruled against Intelligent Design in Dover, PA - are ruining this country and have declared a de facto war on Christians. Justice Sunday III: Proclaim Liberty Throughout the Land follows Justice Sunday II: God Save the United States and this Honorable Court, Justice Sunday I: Stop the Filibuster Against People of Faith, and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol. OK, maybe not that last one."

In other words, Fallwell and Santorum, among others, will be in the house, holding it down in the Illadelph. Stay tuned to see if they or any of the participants can be crowned the second ever Humpday Asshole. Check out the website to see how YOU can get your protest on.

Besides, how can you hate the gays when they when they offer public services like this handy slide show of STD's? Know your STD's.

That was a lot of negative stuff in one post. And I hate to leave you with a pout on your face. All a pout gets you around here is a pat on the head and a fistfull of peanuts. The only thing that could brighten the anyone's face today, West Virginian or not, is the fact that soon the best show in the history of television will be showed. That's right. Very soon, my friends: America's Next Muppet.

And if you have any bad news for me? Tell me in 3 hours. Now is a time for celebration.

2005: A Retrospective in Music

2006-01-03T12:42:00.000-05:00

I love lists; I make lists for my lists. So, the following post will include, but may not be litited to:

1. My favorite singles of the year.
2. Albums I especially enjoyed.
3. Guilty Pleasures and Musical Moments I Embrace.

My favorite singles of the year really could be listed in any order with a few exceptions (#'s 1 and 2). They are the gems from an underwhelming year. Each one made me smile, think or sometimes, but not often, both. The arbitrary number of songs I have chosen is 16. Without further ado:

16. "The Blower's Daughter" by Damien Rice- A beautiful song that's not nearly as porny as the title might indicate. Sadly. I would highly recommend listening to it while watching Natalie Portman get run down by a bus. Something about that makes the cello more poignant.

15. "I Turn My Camera On" by Spoon- There's really not much to the song, just drums and some tinkly instrument in the background. It's a monotonous crawl that never quite comes to a climax. But that's the draw. It's haunting.

14. "Golddigger" by Kanye West feat. Jamie Foxx- Words of wisdom set to thumping beats. I am a sucker for dancing to practical advice and a Ray Charles sample. And here's the thing, he loves her anyway. Now, get that pre-nup.

13. "Brighter Than Sunshine" by Aqualung- Cute little love song by a cute little British guy who sit behind a piano that is no doubt cute. If I weren't so cynical I might be overwhelmed by cuteness.

12. "Speed of Sound" by Coldplay- I know, they're so OVER or whatever, but I think I woke up every day this summer to this song on MTV or VH1. I don't know what Chris Martin is saying half the time, but this song makes him sound like he's soaring.

11. "16 x 32 Military Wives" by the Decembrists- America can't say no. This song features a horn section and fun lyrics involving math and cheating wives. What is more fun than that?

10. "This is the First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes- Yes, he's so incredibly earnest that it hurts, but if anyone sang this to me, I might melt. Bonus points for a great video showing couple of all ages, races and gender combinations enjoying life together.

9. "Mr. Brightside" by the Killers- Before the millionth time you heard it, you loved it, too. And if you love Mormons with eye liner, your heart probably skipped a beat when you watched the video and Brandon Flowers looked at you and repeated, "It was only a kiss." Or maybe that was just me.

8. "Signs" by Snoop Dogg feat. Justin Timberlake and Charlie Wilson- Disco funk, Snoop references Ibiza and some old guy raps while Justin and Snoop fight over women. Oh, and JT says the F word!

7. "Helicopter" by Bloc Party- This is the song I would like playing if I were being chased by hired killers in a movie. It sounds so desperate, especially when the singer, British accent in tow, gasps repeatedly, "Are you hoping for a miracle?"

6. "Galang" by M.I.A- I think this song and video almost gave Yos a seizure when I made him listen to it, but damn if it didn't stick in his head. Again, I am not so sure what she's saying, but I want to shake it like I am from Sri Lanka when I hear it.

5. "Hung Up" by Madonna- When Madonna meets ABBA, I flame out. Even the ghost of Liberace appeared (wearing sequins and a feather) and had to say, "Damn, that's really gay."

4. "Girl" by Beck- It's the only song this year that makes it seem like summer year-round. For best results, play while drinking a margarita and pretending he's not a Scientologist.

3. "One Thing" by Amerie- Something that somebody does to this chick makes her moan and groan and sing like a doorbell. Na-na-na-na-na-OH. Ding dong ding dong sing. She never says what it is, but aren't you curious?

2. "Feel Good Inc." by Gorillaz- I love really depressing songs disguised as dance music. Take away the iPod endorsements and the cackling in the background, and this is a melanholy statement about some corporation that’s going to take the entire world’s pain away.

1. "Since You Been Gone" by Kelly Clarkson- Here's the thing...Have you ever met anyone that doesn't like this song just a little bit? Me neither, and don't leave comments if you have. It's pop perfection and vindication for all those Wednesday nights in law school I skipped a trip to the library to sit and vote for Kelly.

I really enjoyed albums by a lot of people this year, but who buys albums anymore? Here's who caught my ear with their lasest magnum opera: Annie, Madonna, Spoon, Coldplay, Bloc Party, Kanye West, The Decembrists. I especially enjoyed Beck's latest. And I especially enjoyed Fiona Apple's latest.

They caused inner conflict. They made me feel good about myself and bad about myself at the same damn time. They are Guilty Pleasures for the Year.:

7. "These Words" by Natasha Bedingfield- I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. This song was so meta-, I wanted to write a song about her writing a song about writing this song.

6. "Sugar We're Going Down" by Fall Out Boy- I often had the line "I'll be your number one with a bullet" running through my head. And I was willing to cock and pull the loaded God complex.

5. "Hollaback Girl" by Gwen Stefani- Is it weird if a song simultaneously reminds you of your days in marching band, your grandmother's funeral and a night out dancing? I thought so. Regardless, that shit was bananas.

4. "Helena" by My Chemical Romance- OMG, I'm like so goth right now! I just really respond to black-clad dancers with umbrella props at funerals.

3. "Trapped in the Closet"- by R. Kelly- It's a rock opera, song cycle, social statement and trainwreck all in one. Not to mention perfect fodder for a South Park episode. No 14 year olds were peed on in the making of this video.

2. "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas- Yes, I know you actually get stoopider listening to this song. Yes, I know we should be asking Fergie (courtesy JD) what she's gonna do with all that face. But I love it. And I don't care how you judge me for it.

1. "We Belong Together" by Mariah Carey- I know Mariah is crazy. The best way i can describe my feelings about this song to you is through a story. I was walking down a Street in South Philly late one cold night and I heard a girl singing this song, word for word, from her bedroom window. She couldn't have been more than 12 or 13, but, man, she just really felt it. That's how I feel when I hear Mariah say, "Wait a minute, this is too deep..." That it is, Mariah, that it is.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

2006-01-03T12:05:00.000-05:00

Rage, rage against the dying of the light!

www.saveourbluths.org

Sexy New Year, Sexy New Look, Sexy New Resolve

2006-01-02T14:00:00.000-05:00

Hi. Happy New Year. If you're observant, you'll see that this blog has a brand new look. It's light blue and boxy to match my new aura. I have also erased all my links, so they will (hopefully) be back in a jiffy.

I hope that you'll stick around and read me altough I will probably disappear for a few months again in the future. Whatever, I was in the jungles doing service work. You know, giving vaccines and encourages the savages to put down those condoms. What were YOU doing?

This year, like no other before it, will be the year of the Zach. Specifically, me. I some other Zach's, but I don't care to share this new year with them. To stop being greedy and self-absorbed is decidedly NOT one of my resolutions.

What are my resoultions, you ask? Here are a few:

1. Finally learn to smoke. I will start with something seemingly innocuous, but quite obnoxious (Capris, Marlboro 100's) and work my way up to crack by the time my birthday rolls around in November.
2. Start taking more loved ones for granted. It turns out that I have some pretty amazing friends and family members. It's about time I started using more concrete data to prioritize. This year, whoever buys me the most is my favorite.
3. Use the gym exclusively for social purposes. I won't have a naturally slim figure forever, so maybe I should spend my waning time in these salad days by making fun of those who have to work hard for it. And if I MUST go to the gym to exercise(3 blocks away), you can be sure I will be taking a cab to get there.
4. Be pretentious! This is the year I will make new friends by constantly correcting others' grammar and making them feel bad for their individual tastes in entertainment media. Yes. This is the year when I will initiate this plan. Also, wouldn't it be just smashing to start using extra letters when I spell things like the British or the Canadians? If it's good enough for the kids at DeGrassi, it's good enough for you and me. It's one of my favourite programmes. (See?!)
5. Befriend random people on friendster. I mean, some people just need the help. And it certainly wouldn't hurt some people to be seen with me. You know who you are.
6. Continue to languish at temp job while conjuring up delusions of grandeur, but doing so in a less impoverished way than a couple months ago. Do so with more, overt self-loathing but less vim and/or vigor. Delicate balance.
7. Wear more red. Yes, I know I am a winter, but don't you think red makes me seem more vibrant sometimes?
8. Hug myself every morning. Yes, euphemism.
9. Eat more food at other people's houses. Making myself a new, better person will probably make me super hungry. You've been warned.
10. Test out some new and interesting facial hair patterns.

Anyway, I hope to be posting more and worming my way back into your lives, readers. You can't even take a virtual Valtrex to suppress this love.

I Have Spoken It Into Existence

2005-11-30T20:06:00.000-05:00

You Got It Bad. You're Hot For Teacher.

2005-11-09T17:12:00.000-05:00

Oh Goodness! It’s my 100th post! Ever!

In order to celebrate, I have gifts for you, the loyal readers! Keep reading!

Never let it be said that True Enough For You is lacking in educational content. I know that knowledge is power and that there is no greater gift that I can give to my readers. I feel like my readers supply me with power. Cycles are so in right now, so read this and learn something, damn it! For those of you who haven’t quite caught on, the knowledge herein is the gift I promised above.

Shut up, just keep reading.

You would probably be best not to mess with Philadelphia. No really, they will cut you. Those singers always look so innocent, too. Philadelphians get especially mad when they don’t make the playoffs. If they don’t carry pocket knives, they carry machetes. Oh, and don’t EVEN get them started when you start talking shit about their football team. As we have seen, this warning goes double for those who actually were on the roster for said football team.

What’s that noise you hear? You probably thought that the Democratic party was dead, but apparently they have a pulse. It may be faint, this pulse, but it appears that Democrats won a few big races in the latest elections held yesterday. (Yesterday was election day? I know, right?!) New Jersey and Virginia held onto their Democratic governorship strongholds (despite visits from George W. Bush during the campaigns). Some Pennsylvanians even had the good sense to stand up to intelligent design by wiping the slate clean of their conservative school board. The federal trial, however, still looms like a dark cloud over the separation of church and state.

In another sign that the apocalypse may be upon us, not only did Tyra Banks don a fat suit in a very special episode of her magnum opus/talk show, but it turns out that three out politicians were elected in Ohio. That kind of stuff doesn’t even happen in places that gays actually visit (or have heard of)! Congrats to them. However, the election news wasn’t completely glorious for the gays. It turns out that, in a move that surprised no one, the Texas electorate came together to ban gay marriage once and for all. This was notable for many reasons, among them: the KKK showed up to mount a protest in favor of the marriage ban and, um, most people didn’t realize that gay marriage wasn’t legal there to begin with. Those silly Texans!

Gays can’t get married in Texas, but pandas can get married in Thailand. Yeah, that about says it all.

One reason why gay marriage may never be legal is that when given the misguided notion that they are talented designers, a minimal budget and apparently an unhealthy amount of acid, they do things like this to innocent bedrooms. Maybe when the terror stops, widespread acceptance of gay marriage will begin. As Gijyun said, "Okay, you know what? if someone did this to my bedroom, i'd fire them, rehire them, and fire them again."

Consolation? Here's a list of the best man on man kisses in the history of cinema. I am all about number two on the list.

In the meantime, whether you’re gay, straight or a panda, you should check out what Time magazine calls the 100 best novels written in the English language since 1923. (Sorry, Ulysses.) I was surprised to see that I have actually read a bunch of them. I was even more surprised to realize that I have never heard of some of them. Seriously, take a look. It’s in a book. A reading rainbow. You. Can. Do. Anything!

Do you know where you are right now? If you’re an American, chances are you don’t. Year after year, Americans are ranked somewhere near the bottom of the pile regarding geographical awareness. This website helps stupid Americans, not unlike you, learn more about your place in this world and other places, too. Thanks to MP for the heads up. Take the quiz and see if you can identify countries in a certain amount of time. Also, see if you can beat 90% accuracy (who cares where Benin is, anyway?).

Now, if I gave my humble servants as much information as I just gave you, the reader, there would be a damn uprising up in here. I am off to feed them so as to avoid any hateration in this dancerie. Until next time, learn where Turkmenistan is, for your sake.

There's Something I Think You Should Know

2005-11-09T13:12:00.000-05:00

Well, my life is boring this week. So here are some random facts I just received in a forwarded email (thanks KG). I can't verify that all or any of them are true, but whatever.

*The liquid inside young coconuts can be used as a substitute for blood plasma.

*No piece of paper can be folded in half more than seven (7) times.

*Donkeys kill more people annually than plane crashes.

*You burn more calories sleeping than you do watching television.

*Oak trees do not produce acorns until they are fifty (50) years of age or older.

*The first product to have a bar code was Wrigley's gum.

*The king of hearts is the only king without a mustache.

*American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one (1) olive from each salad served in first-class.

*Venus is the only planet that rotates clockwise.

*Apples are more efficient than caffeine at waking you up in the morning.

*Most dust particles in your house are made frrom dead skin cells.

*The first owner of the Marlboro Company died of lung cancer. So did the first "MarlboroMan."

*Walt Disney was afraid of mice.

*Pearls melt in vinegar.

*The three most valuable brand names on earth: Marlboro, Coca Cola, and Budweiser, in that order.

*It is possible to lead a cow upstairs ... but not downstairs.

*A duck's quack doesn't echo, and no one knows why.

*Dentists have recommended that a toothbrush be kept at least six (6) feet away from a toilet to avoid airborne particles resulting from the flush.

*Richard Millhouse Nixon was the first U.S. president whose name contains all the letters from the word "criminal."

That is all for now. Maybe something exciting will happen to me, and I can write about it. Otherwise, I am really going to just start making shit up.

Requiem For A Coffee Shop And An Easy Commute

2005-11-03T19:20:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it pays to make out with people beyond the immediate benefits one might incur. For example, a few months ago (check the April archives for Skippy) I made out with a traveler passing through Philadelphia, and I didn’t think we would really talk much again. This is mostly because he had a boyfriend of 9 years. He was in some sort of open relationship, for all of you who are judging me right now. For Shame!

Anyway, it turns out his boyfriend is the drummer of a really cool band, The New Amsterdams. The lead singer of the New Ams is Matthew Pryor, formerly of The Get Up Kids. They used to be very big for the slacker college set. Lots of young one still follow him around maniacally, asking for autographs and to have his babies (females and gays only). Skippy got in touch with me and said that I could be a VIP guest for the concert when they played at Philadelphia’s Northstar Bar.

I was allowed to hang out backstage with the boys, drink beer with them and see their concert for free. Their set was amazing. They use an upright bass, which is pretty rad. Everyone in the band is very cute, and I got to hear great stories from the chaps in their basement dressing room. And Skippy’s drummer boyfriend Bill is basically the nicest person ever. I got to hang out with him and drink beer with him for an hour before the concert. He was much more composed and accommodating than I would have been with someone who made out with my boyfriend a while ago.

Thus, I can’t encourage you enough to check out the New Amsterdams and their upcoming children’s album, The Terrible Twos. Thanks New Ams!

Briefly: Fuck Septa! Usually I am all about the underdog. In sports, I root for the underdog unless I have a vested interest in the favorite. However, this is ridiculous. There are many reasons why I hate Septa right now:

1. You have made Philadelphia impossible to travel throughout, even for those not directly affected by your strike.
2. Policemen are on every corner as if the city were under siege. They blow their whistles a lot, and it makes my ears hurt.
3. You are forcing people to drive that should have no business ever being behind the wheel of any vehicle. It’s like a normal day in Massachusetts right here in Philadelphia.
4. Most workers have to contribute a small amount of their paycheck to their health insurance fund. Bus drivers should be doing the same thing.
5. I hate hearing about how my friends have to walk everywhere.
6. I think I broke my toe, and what if I needed to take a train somewhere?!

Segue: I think I broke my toe by stubbing it. It’s purple right now. And falling off my foot. Does anyone know how to fix a broken foot without having to see a doctor?

It’s the end of an era in Philadelphia for gay gawkers and drinkers of bad, expensive coffee in town. Millennium Coffee has closed down, creating a sudden dearth in the amount of places to watch men leave 12 Street Gym and make them feel self-conscious. Known for years as a popular meeting place for the gays and gay-friendly, the café served its last mochachino Sunday night, all for lack of profits. Turns out there was more sitting and staring than actual coffee drinking. So, gays must travel elsewhere to drink their lattes and chais to the tune of tribal beats. My condolences for the other local coffeeshops that will have to compensate and reluctantly welcome the spillover gays in search of caffeine. RIP Millennium, we hardly knew ye. I will always remember walking past you, hoping not to be groped by the perverts that sat in front of you. Those were the days.

Finally, this just in. Samuel Alito says abortions will remain legal, so long as they are performed with NRA-approved automatic weapons. Sodomy, however, will be strictly relegated to back alleys and porn shops.

C’est la vie.

Freeze, Steal, Punch, Bet, Call, Check, Raise, Jump, Rip, Cross-dress, Grope, then Gripe

2005-10-31T14:35:00.000-05:00

As I sit here writing this, I am waiting for PGW to come fix my heat. They told me that they would show up “Monday.” I asked for maybe a 5 hour window, and they replied, “Monday.” I know this is not a groundbreaking thought, but this really can’t be said enough: I hate the utility workers of Philadelphia. So, I sit. I write. I wear pajamas with penguins on them. I curse PGW. THANK GOD I am currently unemployed and poor. What if I couldn’t stay home all day and wait?

Ok everybody, response time. First of all, I didn’t see the episode of South Park in which they discover the delightful audio candy of Wing. Sorry about that. I wish I had seen it. I love her.

Secondy-of-ly, the guy whom I have been seeing does not actually hit me, even when he has important lessons to teach me. Intimate Partner violence is serious, as I am sure the people from PUNCH (please see comment from the last entry)can attest. I didn’t mean to give the impression that I was a victim of what is legitimately the invidious underbelly of some seemingly perfect relationships. And besides, I would fight back physically and verbally. And I am pretty sure the people at PUNCH know I would win handily.

Lest anyone think me an insensitive prig, I offer you some literature on the societal blight that is Intimate Partner Violence and the importance of broadening the definition beyond mere domestic abuse.

Poker. Instead of going to quizzo last week, a few of us went to play Texas Hold Em Poker at a bar. In case you don’t know, this is the poker game that is showcased on television in two very different forums. One shows how celebrities are super-awesome and can do everything, including looking pretty, playing cards and saying funny things all at once! The other forum shows scary old guys in sunglasses who stop watching Nascar and eating donuts long enough to learn some fancy card playing. Sometimes they glare or stand up and throw their hands in the air, depending on how lucky you are as a viewer.

It was only my third time ever playing, so I was way nervous. DK, EK and KC were there. Our table contained a couple of nice patient people, who didn’t mind that we were not as experienced as they were. Our table was fun, the other table was the “serious” table, the guys who go from bar to bar playing poker on the circuit. Yes, there is a free poker circuit in Philadelphia. Because their table was playing faster than ours, the organizers of the game kept randomly picking people from our table to join the other one. As luck had it, I was sent to the psycho table. They were outwardly critical and intimidating, but I won a few hands and even eliminated some people. I made it to the final 4 (it was me against fat, sickly and smarmy, respectively) of my new table, but was eliminated after I lost focus. That is, I got bored and sick of hanging out with those losers. I only did as well as I did because I am not overtly emotive and I expertly tread the line between playing and being dumb. Ask my parents or close friends.

Unsurprisingly, since KC said that playing poker in public was the worst idea we’ve ever had, she won the whole tournament for the night (facing smarmy in the head to head showdown). Also, unsurprisingly, she laughed out loud at the organizers once she found out that the grand prize was a whopping 25 dollars. Celebrity Poker Challenge, it was certainly not.

Suicide watch. On Friday before I went to a Halloween party, JC called me up and screamed into the phone. “Someone is going to jump off a building on 12th and Walnut. You have to come watch it.” I said, “What?” He said, “And there’s a midget here watching!” I didn’t waste a second on another thought. I jumped into my sneakers and ran out the door, a little underdressed for the damp chill of autumn.

When I got to the scene, an amazing heavy set African American woman, looked at me and shook her head, mumbling, “Bitch ain’t gonna jump.” She pointed up at what looked like a woman wearing all denim with frumpy, mousy colored hair and white sneakers. She was seating, legs swinging, on the top floor and northeast corner of a parking garage. Police had blocked off a perimeter, which couple with the throngs of ever-gathering people made traffic more congested than the normal rush hour variety.

She ripped up a piece of paper and threw it up in the air. Was she a one person ticker tape parade? I wondered. But then I remembered Philadelphia teams don't win the big game. Ever. The police eventually talked the woman down from the roof but not before some very tense moments and a lengthy debate on the ground over whether she was stupid not to find a higher building. One comment: “She’s just going to end up like Terri Schiavo, not dead.” When she gave up her stand, a smattering of folks clapped for her. Mostly, people just shrugged and walked away, happy that traffic was back to normal. The apathy was overwhelming.

Halloween parties this weekend. My friends dressed as everything from Daisy Duke to Wrigley Field to a big old Purple Pimp. We went to a party where the men said, “We’re not gay, it’s Halloween!” And the women said, “We’re not sluts, it’s Halloween!” My favorite costumes were Carmen Sandiego and the Madonna character from Desperately Seeking Susan. Hilarious. We all got sufficiently wasted and made our way home. Chop and I, ventured out on Saturday when the gays were disappointingly underdressed. We also went to a party were JC was so drunk that he was throwing cheese from the appetizer plates at cars on the street. Yay free alcohol and candy!

Once I seized myself into alcohol and sugar shock, G came and picked me up where I passed out on a futon and dreamed of a warm shower in the morning.

By the way, I was dressed as Harry Potter. Pictures will follow, but I must warn you, I was fucking adorable. I know this because I was groped by more men this weekend than ever in my life. Nothing like Halloween weekend to bring out the pedophiles.

Not that I am surprised, but on the eve of the most important month of the year, I got the news that November babies get the psychological shaft. So, that’s why I am the way I am. I thought it might be a lack of vitamins.

Happy Halloween! Boo!

Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear?

2005-10-26T01:15:00.000-05:00

Ok, autumn is my favorite season, but that's because I like long walks in the park with colored leaves falling at my feet. The cold rain could stop any day now, thanks.

Remember when I joked in my last post that I had no heat? It turns out that since God hates me and karma is a Bitch (or vice versa) that my heat actually IS broken. I had no hot water for a shower this evening, and I felt so, so dirty. I actually had to carry a towel and toiletries to JC's house and take a shower there. And I will have to do that tomorrow morning, too. If my week gets any better, I will be rolling in glass by Thursday.

However, I have found something to keep me warm this evening. Her name is Wing. She sings like a bird. Please listen to her and experience the magic. Be warned. It's safe for work, but not for the faint of heart. I am not sure who told this woman she could sing, never mind give her a recording contract, but I am so happy they did. If you have not heard her, you must. She is a delight.

The Prodigal Blogger Returns

2005-10-24T16:38:00.000-05:00

I know. I know. Where have I been? Am I OK? Etc…

Well, I am back. Since I lost my job a while ago, I just haven’t felt much like writing. Everyone who has said hello and told me I haven’t been writing since that time, thanks. I am going to try and be a better person now. Mostly because I know that making you happy makes me a better person. My parents used to tell me the exact same thing—except they also added that I would go straight to hell someday if I didn’t do everything in my power to make them happy. And this is why I wake up in the fetal position every morning. Well, that and because I have no heat.

So what have I been doing since I last wrote? Most people when they are faced with an obstacle like the loss of a job hear a beckon call to action. They gather their wits, make lemonade out of those proverbial lemons, light a fire under their ass and/or exemplify one of many other clichés. I am not that person. I prefer the passive approach to crisis management. That is, I sit around and feel sorry for myself and avoid contact with anyone who might ask me how my life is going. That way I remaining alluring and elusive and don’t have to waste my energy or your time on half-hearted human interaction. That sounds more pathetic than I meant, bear with me.

Also I went to lots of weddings. Seriously, this past weekend in the first weekend in October when I haven’t attended a wedding. Each wedding was a blessed celebration of love which I commemorated by getting fall-down embarrassingly drunk. Some highlights included, but were not limited to: stealing several wedding favors (by several, I mean more scented candles than you can shake a wick at) and a table centerpiece or two, monopolizing all the time on a wedding video by seducing several women over the age of 55 and pimping my friend out to another man so that she wouldn’t make out with a midget with slicked back hair. I danced up a storm, drank up a bit of cirrhosis and lost a ton of money. I placated my bitterness towards weddings by making up reasons why the couple was getting married that clearly were substituted for true love, which probably does not exist. At least not while I am legally forbidden from ever declaring that I have found one and reaping the tax benefits therefrom.

Man, I am a bitch today for no reason. I am probably going to be writing with a bit of an “edge” for a while.

In other news, I found a nice guy to date who only hits me when I really deserve it or he has an important lesson to teach me. I watched tons of television, lots of reality tv. I have read a bunch of books. I reunited with all my college roommates (that matter) and went to the wedding of a girl who dated almost all of them. I finally learned how to play Texas Hold 'Em. I visited Cape Cod. Got a bit of Botox. My friends have started writing letters to celebrities. And blog-spammers have fallen for me like that creepy, old guy in the corner who keeps buying me drinks.

Other assorted thoughts before I sign off for the day:

· Bad- The Phillies were thisclose to making the playoffs, breaking my heart just a little. Good- An early playoff exit by both the Yankees and Red Sox proved that there are more than 2 teams in baseball.
· Good- Arrested Development, My Name is Earl and The Office (American version) are really, really funny shows. Bad- The Amazing Race Family Edition and the new season of Desperate Housewives are really, really boring.
· Bad- Hurricanes are scary! Good- Rob Marciano and Andersoon Cooper get pretty wet in hurricanes.
· Good- George W. Bush’s approval ratings are lower than ever. We’re talking Warren G. Harding territory here. Rove and DeLay are looking like indictment posterboys. Huzzah! Bad- GWB appoints Jerri Blank as a nominee for the Supreme Court.
· Good- Madonna’s new song samples ABBA music. Bad- Jessica and Ashlee Simpson still considered pop-culturally relevant to many.

I am going to try and blog more. I want to be better. I want to be better for you. I live for your affection and positive affirmation. Now, get up out of this seat, hug a loved one and secretly pretend it's me.

I will do the same for you.

How Many References To Trash Can You Count In This Post?

2005-09-19T17:09:00.000-05:00

Q: What are President Bush’s current thoughts on Roe v. Wade?

A: He doesn’t care how people get out of New Orleans!

Zzzzzzing! Tips in the jar. I’ll be here all week.

Hey, did you watch the Emmys last night? I did. I must admit that I had to pop open a beer during the ceremony. I knew the moment I saw Doris Roberts feeling herself up in a sexual manner while listening to The Black Eyed Peas (including that Kids Incorporated skank Fergie) and Earth Wind and Fire rapping/singing about the year’s best tv moments that it was going to take some alcohol to make it through. Arrested Development didn’t win much, though they did deservedly win Best Writing for a Comedy Series. Regardless, they begin their third headlong descent into near-cancellation tonight. And I couldn’t be more excited.

Seriously, my life it so sad; I am living for Arrested Development tonight. The other highlight of my day was walking around Whole Foods and eating as many free samples as possible. I entered the store a bit hungry and left quite satisfied. I got the stink-eye from a security guard during my third trip to the Roasted Red Pepper Cheese Spread station, so I grabbed a Jamba Juice and exited post-haste. That said, the champagne bread rolls and the fruit and nut granola chunks were a delight! Thanks Whole Foods! P.S. Loving the hot produce guy stocking the Jonagold Apples today. He was totally flexing as he worked, and I totally respond to that kind of desperation for attention.

As I write this, I am embarrassed to say that Dr. Phil is on my tv in the background. HE is pissed! The name of the show is “I am afraid of my mother.” His guest is this beast of a woman who routinely verbally abuses her daughter by calling her retarded and Helen Keller all the time. Granted, it’s an odd insult, but I give her points for creativity since she claims that her kids are “blind and deaf to everything I want.” It’s not just any verbal abuser who can paint an image with a metaphor as well as invoke the allusion of a strong female historical figure. More importantly, Dr. Phil almost just punched her. Seriously, he pulled back to hit her, and he almost called her a bitch. He’s going to go bitchcakes, and it’s amazing.

Speaking of crazy bitches, I discovered this weekend that I hate one of my neighbors. On Sunday morning JC called me to come downstairs to look at a huge pile of garbage that my drug-addled hall mates left against the side of my building. It was impressive, almost artful, the way they piled so many disgusting things together. I must tell you, reader, by way of background, that garbage is a huge deal with my landlords. One time, junk mail of mine was discovered on the street (it must have slipped out of the recycling bag), landlords called me and asked me to come home from work to pick it up immediately. Sometime after telling them they were insane, I removed the garbage from the sidewalk and had to call the landlords to let them know it was gone. Anyway…

As JC and I were surveying the garbage sculpture, replete with Life Cereal and several forties of Yeungling, a woman exited a car with a suitcase and garment bag. She must have been in her early twenties. She had a short haircut and serious bitchface. JC and I sat on my stoop and talked about the mess, that is, my life when she passed us by with her rolling suitcase and derisively snorted, “Is that your garbage?” It was a bit accusatory for my taste. I said, “No, is it yours?” She said, as if she just cured cancer, “Um, if it was MY garbage, would I be asking you?” and walked to the door of the brownstone next to mine, her suitcase banging on each step. She didn’t pick it up; she just kept dragging it.

Now. Beyond the fact that she didn’t use the subjunctive voice, the fact that she had a face only a battered woman shelter worker could love and the fact that her logic was reaching Xanadu levels of insanity, her tone made me angry. And on top of that, her question did nothing to prove that it wasn’t actually her garbage. What if she had the whole thing planned from the beginning? It wouldn’t hold up in court, missy, it’s not going to hold up on my stoop. Lose the attitude. That must be what you’re dragging around in that clunky suitcase. I didn’t say anything else to her, but as she entered her door, JC yelled to her, “We still think the garbage is yours!” The last laugh was ours.

I must go prepare for dinner at Lolita, a quaint little BYOT (Bring Your Own Tequila) joint on 13th Street. Last time I went there was with an ex. I practically had to be carried home after imbibing a little bit too much T. It was either that or have a serious talk about “the relationship.” Clearly you see the winning side. Oh, hindsight, you 20/20 roguish devil! Or is it devilish rogue?

Maybe with any luck, I will see Lil’ Kim on the way there! That's right. The Queen Bee will be doing her stint in prison right here in Center City Philadelphia. She'll make a more than adequate bitch to someone, or so I pray.

Sorry, Ma'am, It's Not My Dimebag

2005-09-19T01:46:00.000-05:00

So, pretend you own a restaurant/bar that cashes in on a stale homocentric scene in the City of Brotherly Dry Humping by hosting a party every third Friday of the month catering to a crowd that’s say, a little lighter in the loafers than most. With me so far? Presumably, this is your most lucrative night of the month since homos come out in droves whenever a drink special is held out in front of them like the proverbial carrot dangling from the stick. [Note to self: try hard to resist the obvious carrot/stick/gay joke. Breathe. And…resume.] What would your next move be? Why not alienate your client base by improvising a fake dress code and not letting people in?

If you follow that logic, chances are you work for the Mansion on Rittenhouse. On Friday night, the owners of the manse turned bar decided to enforce a dress code of no t-shirts or sneakers, a dress code that was never in effect before this night, a dress code that was used to discourage the gays from entering. And it’s a dress code that is not very amenable to the balmy Indian summer we are experiencing. The planners of the party stood outside the bar and told people not to go in. I imagine that the “Lucky Lounge” party will probably be held elsewhere. The actions of The Mansion smacked of homophobia. I highly encourage you to boycott the Mansion. So ordered. If you do stop by, tell the owners we said to fuck off.

The disappointing night out was more than made up for the night after as lady-friends of mine threw a rocking dance party in their basement. It was a smidge hot, but one highlight was some dude who couldn’t decide if he wanted to make out with me or my friend JD (a female). She coined him Gaybe (a hybrid of gay and maybe). Gaybe was all up in our shit all night. I don’t know if he were cute or if it were just super dark in the basement and I needed attention. The copious amounts vodka did not help my assessment skills.

The other night I was approached by a man on the street who asked, in this order, if I had any heroin, cocaine or pot. Way to set the expectations high, buddy! At first I didn’t understand if he were asking me to buy or sell; so, I asked him to clarify. He said he was buying, but was also interested in helping me if I wanted to buy. I was even more confused and walked away. Drug dealers should really be more effective communicators if they expect to make any money. No wonder he had holes in his jeans.

Was that the only drug-related incident of the night? Not for me, no. I was on the phone with the G, trying to enter my apartment building and pulling the keys out of my pocket. As I was fumbling with my keys, some woman, a young one dressed in scrubs, passed by me and asked if something fell out of my pocket. I figured something had fallen out when I took my keys out, so I thanks her and leaned down to pick up what I had dropped. When my eyes met the ground, I realized I was face to face with a small bag of pot.

Inner monologue: “Did I drop a bag of pot out of my pants? No, Z, you don’t do drugs. That’s why you drink so much, alcohol is your anti-drug. Then how did this fall out of your pants, Z? Maybe it didn’t. No, it definitely didn’t. That lady was nice to tell me about my pot. Wait, that lady thinks I dropped my drugs. Illicit drugs. Will she tell my mom? My mom wouldn’t care, I guess. Wait again, that woman thinks I do drugs. Should I let her walk away thinking that or should I embarrass myself further by chasing her and letting her know they’re not mine? Ah, just let it go. No, that’s too easy.”

So, while still on the phone, I chased the woman down the street. And the conversation went something like this:

Z: Hey wait!
Woman: Yes? Are you ok?
Z: Yes. Thanks so much for pointing out that you thought I dropped something. But it turns out I didn’t.
W: Oh, Ok.
Z: See, that was a bag of pot on the ground. And it wasn’t even mine. Weird, huh?
W: Uh, yeah.
Z: So, like I said, it wasn’t mine.
W: Ok, have a good night.
Z: I have actually never even smoked a cigarette! So, I don’t do drugs.
W: I am going to go now.
Z: Have a great night. Thanks again.
W: Yeah. [walks away quickly]

And…scene.

Too bad I couldn’t have given that pot to the guy from before who was asking about the drugs. Life really is all about timing!

And it wouldn’t be a month at True Enough For You without my reporting a death in the family. Jazzmine, the family dog died the other night. My mom called me crying on Saturday morning to inform me that the dog had passed away. While the dog and I had our ups and downs (For example, I couldn’t breathe around her since I am quite allergic to dogs. Not that this stopped my family from getting one. Not that I am still bitter. Sigh.), I will miss the old dog. It’s sad. Rough summer for my family. I would joke and say to stay tuned and see who dies next, but I don’t want to tempt fate.

More to come tomorrow. Hey, it’s restaurant week in Philadelphia!

The Blame Game

2005-09-08T12:56:00.000-05:00

Just when you think Celine is the nuttiest nut who ever did nut, True Enough for You interns KC and CK send me information that other people are saying crazy things regarding the aftermath of the Katrina disaster. Examples?

KC reports: Wolf Blitzer reportedly said "These people are so poor and so, so black." Those who saw this episode of the Situation Room said it was done unscripted (obviously) and it sounded like Wolf was trying to fill time as they were showing footage of the damage.

Did you hear what Bush said about Trent Lott's house? He said that his good friend Trent Lott lost his house in the storm but is going to rebuild "bigger and better" and Bush will enjoy sitting on the porch. Well, thank god for that. Now we can all go on.

Where did GWB get his ability to always say the right thing at the right time? Maybe from his mother.

CK reports: Here's Barbara Bush's quote about the people in the stadium, Howard Stern just played it: "Many of these people are underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them." Right, I'm sure they're thrilled. Howard was like "is anyone making a big deal about this?!"

CK and KC, don’t be so silly. These people, who are so, SO black are obviously fortunate to be able to take advantage of this situation. I mean, this hurricane has given them the opportunity to lose half their family (they were taking up way too much room in the tenements, anyhow) and do something besides sit around and collect welfare. Maybe they deserved it. You don’t see hurricanes hitting Kennebunk Port, do you? And now these people are surrounded by death, despair, dehydration and reporters who aren’t even allowed to do their job.

Brian Williams, NBC anchor, reports on his blog:

"While we were attempting to take pictures of the National Guard (a unit from Oklahoma) taking up positions outside a Brooks Brothers on the edge of the Quarter, the sergeant ordered us to the other side of the boulevard. The short version is: there won't be any pictures of this particular group of guard soldiers on our newscast tonight. Rules (or I suspect in this case an order on a whim) like those do not HELP the palpable feeling that this area is somehow separate from the United States...

...Someone else points out on television as I post this: the fact that the National Guard now bars entry (by journalists) to the very places where people last week were barred from LEAVING (The Convention Center and Superdome) is a kind of perverse and perfectly backward postscript to this awful chapter in American history."

Andy at Towleroad does an amazing job making sense of who’s who in the blame game. The levels of incompetence are astounding and heartbreaking.

Talking points memo says: Take a moment to note what's happening here: these are the marks of repressive government, which mixes inefficiency with authoritarianism. The crew that couldn't get key aid on the scene in time last week is coming in force now. And one of the key missions appears to be cutting off public information about what's happening in the city.

This is a domestic, natural disaster. Absent specific cases where members of the press would interfere or get in the way of some particular clean up operation, or perhaps demolition work, there is simply no reason why credentialed members of the press should not be able to cover everything that is happening in that city.

Think about it.

One small glimmer of hope in all this chaos is all the stories of people rising above the government’s ineptitude and whatever other obstacles are in the way to give all they can to help. Anything you can do to help out is a good idea. For example, I will be attending a party this week to watch the Katrina telethon, at which there will be a cover charge to get in. All proceeds will be donated to the telethon. Every little bit helps. I am unemployed and poor, but I am still donating. Please do the same.

Hey, TEFY’s newest intern, MN, sent me an email telling me to type “failure” into the google search engine and see what comes up. For real. Ha.

Her Heart Will Go On

2005-09-05T23:50:00.000-05:00

"When i want to watch, like the rest of the world, I turn on the television. And those people are still there."

Thus spake Celine Dion. Check out the histrionic diva from La Canadia flipping out on the Larry King show. When you're the craziest person sitting at Larry King's desk, you know you have problems.

Another gem: "You know, some people are stealing and they're making a big deal out of it. Oh, they're stealing 20 pair of jeans or they're stealing television sets. Who cares? They're not going to go too far with it. Maybe those people are so poor, some of the people who do that they're so poor they've never touched anything in their lives. Let them touch those things for once."

Thanks to JC for calling my attention to this testament in truth and gesticulation.

It's good to know that even in these times of crisis you can still count on certain things: death, taxes and Celine Dion being batshit crazy.

My Cover Letter To The President

2005-09-04T11:10:00.000-05:00

Dear President Bush:

It has come to my attention that there is an opening for employment in one of your departments due to the unfortunate passing of Mr. Chief Justice Rehnquist. Now that Big Willy, as we used to call him, has taken the bench way up in the sky, you will need to replace him with someone intelligent, charming and really, really cute. For the foregoing reasons, I believe I would be the best candidate for the job.

My most attractive asset is my availability. Since I have just been relieved of my job as law clerk, I spend my days wondering what I might have for lunch and asking questions like, “How early is too early for happy hour?” and, “It’s 5 O’Clock somewhere, right?” Before you were saved, you probably asked those very same questions between all those afternoon eight balls! Regardless, I am ready to think about the law at a moment’s notice.

Since you, Laura and the twins are regular readers of my blog, you know I am well versed in dealing with a diva on the bench. And I think we both know that certain members of the bench are prone to fits and tantrums. (I am rolling my eyes in your diminutive direction, Ginsburg). I am not going to call anyone a bitch, but you can read between the lines.

Moreover, I grew up in Northeastern Pennsylvania, home to the most elderly people per capita of any place outside of Miami/Dade County in our nation. It’s true, ask Jeb. So, I know what it’s like to be around people constantly dealing with the fact that the scepter of death is always squarely placed above their heads.

I am quite nosy and sometimes inappropriate, so you can count on hearing the probative questions from me that really count. Thus, if someone were to approach the bench with questionable attire, I would begin my inquiry by being all, like, “Um, what’s up with your tie, counselor?” People have a right to know.

I look quite good in black. It’s slimming, but it doesn’t make me look gaunt. I would be more than willing to cut my hair to match any sort of conservative fashion scheme that you plan for the court. And if you’re worried about my politics, Michael Moore is way too fat for me to legitimately respect.

I think I have the personal qualities that would make me a good fit for the current composition of the Court. For example, my laid back, yet sarcastic demeanor would balance the acerbic, high strung rants of Scalia. I know enough about porn to have a conversation with Thomas. Stevens plays a damn good game of tennis from what I hear. And let’s face it, Souter and your new appointee Roberts are both totally, totally gay. Furthermore, I would love to be the progenitor of “Beer, Wings and Monday Night Football with the Justices” night at a local bar of your choice.

I know you’re really busy trying to figure out where all the manpower and helicopters and army forces are in this time of crisis as the Gulf Coast endures the worst natural crisis the country has seen in decades(hint: Iraq). But you need to really get on this! I can start immediately, if not sooner. Caveats: My lease was just renewed, so I will have to work out of my apartment most of the time when I am not on the bench. With the new TV season right around the corner, it’s about to be a busy time of year for me, so the faster we could get started on my confirmation hearings, the better.

I am more than ready to serve. If for some reason you don’t think I am qualified enough (sorry, you’ve made some dubious judgment calls in the past), I would urge you to consider Whitney Houston. Girlfriend is wa-larious on Being Bobby Brown, and the Court could lighten up a smidge with all this talk of abortion and sodomy laws. You gonna take away Whitney’s right to anal? Aw, hell to the NO!

Thanks in advance for your consideration. My resume, transcript and references are all yours upon request.

Best, ZRW

P.S. Abslolutely adored your advice to the residents of the Gulf Coast to “hang in there!” Why didn’t they think of that?!

A Baby Can Go Blind If You Give It Too Much Light...

2005-08-31T15:41:00.000-05:00

I'm not dead. I got laid off.

Judge Fabulous decided that she no longer needed a clerk, so I have been busy trying to find a new job. This was a surprise to me. It was a rainy Friday afternoon. She called me into her office, late, natch. She sat me down to tell me that she was no longer in need of a clerk (she did not add that it was partially because she hired a personal assistant whom she could make do all of the jobs she was having me do). She said that it wasn’t personal, but having a clerk was a bit of a headache. She gave me no notice. Legally, she wasn’t required to do so, but professionally she would have been less of a bitch. I have really bad luck with work.

Sandy was inconsolable and cried when I called her to tell her. A lot. She sent me a card in the mail telling me what a good person I was and inviting me for lunch at Chili’s. Like the Scarecrow, I will miss her most of all.

I am happy to leave the office since I did not find it professionally or personally rewarding, but I would have liked to have left on my own terms. I am hoping that it creates a positive change and that I can find a good new job that I enjoy and that challenges me. And where I don’t have to park the car of the laziest person in America.

I won’t say too much more about it, but on the way out of the office Judge Fabulous told me she knows things will be ok if I start to believe in God. Jigga What? Yes, when he closes one door, he opens another. In my head I responded, “How dare you tell me that, you fucking cunt (pardon my language)!” But instead I smiled, shook her hand (which is still missing the ring over which she tried to get cleaning staff fired), cleaned up my stuff and left.

If anyone knows someone who wants to hire a destitute lawyer who’s not too hard on the eyes, please let me know. I will also accept any donations and food you send my way. Thanks!

Also, thanks for all the support from friends. Someday when I am rich and famous, I will cook you dinner, too.

Otherwise, not too much action to catch you up on. Most other areas of my life are surprisingly going very well. As an aside, I am a believer (like GA) that at no time can all the parts of my life be going well simultaneously. That is, something will always be wrong. When GA ran this theory past her mother, she recommended that she see a psychiatrist. I would do that, but I have no health insurance! If my appendix bursts, I am just going to lie there and take it like a man.

I retreated to the homestead for a bit, took some time to send out resumes and get errands done. I have had lots of time to read the shit out of some fiction and get a little zen. I have frequented the gym and gone running some. Besides having no income, I am leading a pretty good life. Unemployment here I come. I dream big, and it’s always been my dream to apply for unemployment benefits by the time I was 30. I am now 27, and as always, I overachieve!

My semi-regular updates shall recommence….now.

An Apology, And It's Actually Contrite

2005-08-18T15:11:00.000-05:00

Dear reader:

For reasons I will go into in my next blog entry (soon, I swear), it's been a busy, busy week in la oficina. So, I am sorry I haven't written more. In the mean time, please read these wonderful personal essays on flings, love won and mostly lost, in the summertime, and think of me. And the wonderful affair you and I can have, dear reader.

Thanks for letting me know I haven't written. I love the attention.

More Sandy is around the corner, as well.

To occupy yourself at work, please just meditate on this picture of me jumping on a hotel bed while wearing women's sunglasses. It's really the only way you'll ever be totally zen. Don't say I never provided you with the true path to enlightenment. That should be enough to carry you over until I am better equipped (mentally and temporally) to entertain you.

Kisses, Z

Wedding Bells, Drives from Hell, Jokes that Smell, Muscles Swell

2005-08-16T14:51:00.000-05:00

Warning: This is an uninspired post. I am tired and cranky, but I love my readers.

I have returned from the wedding where Carrie and Marcello pledged their lives to one another forever or at least until one of them gets really sick of the other. This might have been my favorite wedding I have ever attended. They just seemed like they were having a blast. The music was fun, the dancing was plentiful and as David Brent says, the vino did flow. Plus, as a favor to the couple, they actually sent me to yell at the staff of the venue. I love having a reputation for getting things done. Also, in line with my reputation, I drank and danced tons. See photo. Nice pose, CH!

Yos, as always documented the days and nights of love and roses digitally and has posted the fruits of his labor, as it were, online.

It was downright lovely to meet Gijyun.

In between the rehearsal and the wedding, I had a nightmare scenario come to life. My car broke down in the middle lane of Roosevelt Boulevard. For those of you who have not had the acquaintance of Roosevelt Boulevard, it’s main road that helps you traverse the outer limits of hell, a.k.a. Northeast Philadelphia. My opinion might be tempered by my experience there this weekend, but Northeast Philadelphia is the god damned ugliest, most horrible place in the history of places. I felt zero brotherly love as hoopties zoomed past me, yelling horrible things about me and my Ford Focus. My car got tired; give him (my car's name is Friedrich) a break!

Anyway, Yos talked me through the whole ordeal while driving behind me with his hazard flashers on, since I am basically helpless in the face of technology breakdowns. I did not hold my hand or cradle me in his arms, but I wouldn’t have turned it down. Pray for me and my car as evasive action to repair will take place this week.

I have never been so happy to see summer rain. The heat subsides for a moment; I sigh a breath of relief. I will be whipping out my Turin Brakes record tonight in celebration.

I saw the Aristocrats this weekend. It’s a movie about the way different comics interpret what’s known in their circles as the “dirtiest joke in history.” There was lots of talk of blood, poo, piss, semen and more poo, all of which ended up on someone’s grandma’s face at some point. Well, several grandmas, including Bob Saget’s. People actually got up and left the theater because of some of the vile versions of the joke. There were some hilarious moments, but I remain, as I suspected, unenthused by poo.

Just to let you know, the Electric Slide is on the radio right now. You would be wrong if you didn’t think Sandy was trying to do the dance. You would continue in your wrongness if you thought she knew how to do it. And you would be the wrongest person ever if you didn’t think that I didn’t love this shit.

The Judge has hired a new assistant. As soon as I flesh out the bare-bones gossip I have heard about him (something about being a fake preacher!), I will figure out how I feel about him. If he reduces my workload, he’ll be my new favorite person.

In an effort to become the second weakest male in Philadelphia (currently, I am number one), I cashed in my two free personal trainer sessions at the gym. My trainer was just mean enough to me to get results but nice enough that I didn’t throw my barbells at him. Which I definitely could not have done. Anyway, my point is: I can’t move my arms above my head.

Hey look! A virtual tour of Philadelphia Murals!

WXPN needs your input about the best albums of all time. I have my list down to about 30 albums. I am wavering because there is a difference between my great albums and favorite albums (personal experiences influence opinions) and no "greatest hits" are allowed. Hmph.

See? I told you. Uninspired, cranky, etc. I am out of here, like T.O. Sorry for the scattered thoughts. More focus tomorrow.

Love Is In The Air; Find The Lysol

2005-08-11T10:41:00.000-05:00

What’s that you hear? It’s the sound of wedding bells ringing for assclown and his lovely wife. This Friday night they will tie the proverbial knot. While I love them as a couple, I am a bit frightened by their collective judgment, as they have asked me to participate in the wedding. I will be the Master of Ceremonies for their non-traditional ceremony and reception. This is a brave move on their part, since I am sure they are aware that the last wedding in which I was asked to do a job, I told the entire reception that the groom was a closet nudist, got cut off from the open bar and basically had to be placed in the back of a limo in which some friends and I convinced complete strangers to join us to travel to downtown Washington D.C. That was not the limo’s actual destination, of course.

Then again, I can’t really question the judgment of any couple that is being introduced at the reception to the tune of “The Final Countdown.” That’s how fun this couple is. So, I may not be as bitter and jaded when they walk down the aisle as I usually am at weddings. For a brief moment, I may believe in love. But for many moments after, I will believe in the open bar. Cheers!

Quizzo victory last night. What did we learn? Agatha Christie is the all time sales leader in fiction. Waylon Jennings sang the theme song to the Dukes of Hazzard with his band, The Waylors. And the world’s largest pyramid is in Mexico.

Yesterday, my office served as the setting for what I like to call, “Attack of the Sassy Black Women.” Sandy and one of her friends were talking about an array of subjects, and I, fully aware of the sound of opportunity knocking, stopped doing all work to take notes on everything they were saying. What follows is a mind-blowing journey through a place where syntax and sense are distant memories.

Sandy, referring to a not-so-well-liked court male court officiant, called him a “jealous hearted, poor ass, trifling, black bitch.” From her stories, this description was not only apt, but also generous.

I told Sandy that I was tired, and she told me that I was full of life that Jesus gave me, and that all I needed to do was look at her to see a “beat the fuck down, bitch ass woman.” I want to make this saying into a t-shirt.

Barry White came on the radio, and Sandy and her friend were telling me about how they used to go out in the 1970’s and dance to his music. Sandy said, “You don’t even know it, baby. I was fucking hot.” I told her I believed it; I did. She continued, “I wasn’t nothing but Big Fun.” I said, “Ah, like Heathers.” She replied, “Who the hell is Heather?” I told her it’s a movie with a band in it called “Big Fun.” (I did not add that they sang the song, "Teenage Suicide [Don't Do It]). To which, she replied, apropos of nothing, “I haven’t seen a Steven Segal movie in a long, long time.”

I should let you know, by way of background, that Sandy is a huge Steven Segal fan. I didn’t know there were any, but it turns out that one of the biggest works right next to me. Jesus wept.

Sandy’s friend told us she just went to “the ugliest fucking wedding” the other day. She described it as “straight up Sanford and Son; the only thing missing was the truck.” The bride and groom wore matching FUBU outfits in yellow. Lovely.

I will spare you the women’s explanation about why men get diarrhea more than women.

And finally, for some reason, at one point Sandy’s friend screamed, “Wooo!” at the top of her lungs and then followed it up with, “It’s like an encyclopedia up in here!!!” And I honestly have no idea what she could have meant by this. Really, no clue.

Half day off today and a full day off tomorrow! My updates will be accordingly intermittent. Yay!

Help Your Boys Be Boys And Your Girls Be Girls

2005-08-09T15:42:00.000-05:00

Blue Steel. Who loves 4 year old pop culture references? I do. Step off.

Hey, nothing’s going on in my life today, so let me hit y’all with some odds and ends.

I should have known as soon as I started making fun of the band of hoodlums painting anything without a pulse (and sometimes with a pulse- not confirmed) in my neighborhood that it was probably a worthy cause. Intrepid “True Enough For You” Asian reporter, AD, informed me the other night that the painters were doing work, filming a Public Service Announcement for the “Know AIDS” campaign. I forgive him his smugness because he cooked me dinner after showing me the error of my ways.

I should feel a bit sheepish about poking fun of the crew, probably volunteering hours upon hours of their time to inform the gayborhood about the AIDS; however, I firmly stand by the fact that they all looked like massive douchebags. That said, check out some of their legitimately creative and earnestly well-meaning work here.

Am I the only one who feels disproportionately, irrationally emotional about the death of Peter Jennings? Just asking. Look away. [sniff sniff.]

Some fun with Craig today:

First of all someone left this open ended invitation to everyone, I assume. I love the person who wrote this. He or she loves to live on the edge. Honestly, who would invite danger in this manner without being totally amazing? I would like to turn this into a field trip. Who’s game?

Meet me at the Mercer Hotel

in SoHo.Wed. August 18 @ 12:10pm.

I am so there. I hope there’s room for all of us!

Yesterday’s inclusion of “tamponhenge” created quite a stir among those readers who menstruate or do not menstruate, alike. For some more tampon art, go here. Bloody fabulous!

Everyone’s favorite group of morally superior bigots, Focus on the Family, has released a list of warning signs for parents to identify if their children are growing up homo. With the help of this list, parents can administer shock therapy to their kids before it’s too late. The guidelines include this zinger: "A tendency to walk, talk, dress and even “think” effeminately." How the hell can you tell if someone is thinking effeminately? [OK. So I may imagine that I am a supermodel every time I hear "Freedom" by George Michael. But still.]

Don’t be totally J, but I spent all of last Friday night being flanked and groped by beautiful girls at KC’s birthday party. OK, there was a lot more flanking than groping, but whatever. What did I do to deserve the company of such lovely ladies? Who knows, but the sun even shines on a dog’s ass some days. The amazing K sisters came to town and got to live out their blog fantasies; that is: hanging out with me. They deserve far more than just a shout out. See below for their incandescent beauty, but be warned, our mortal eyes are not built for so much pretty in one picture. Disregard the vodka-soaked molestor, centrally located.

Monday Bloody Monday

2005-08-08T09:07:00.000-05:00

The other judge with whom we share our chambers got a phone call this morning from a woman who claimed she couldn’t make it to jury duty because she had her period. In her overshare of a message (which we heard on speaker phone) she said that she had a “killer headache” and was “bleeding all over the place.” I put down my bright red, berry V8 Splash and implored the gods above to allow me to start my Monday over.

Of course, Sandy had something to say about it: “Shit, this woman and her lame-ass, weak-ass excuses. I used to work at a place with all women. Shit, my boss was a lesbian, and that excuse was never allowed. What about poor Zach? Is he going to call up and say, ‘Oh, my dick hurts so bad today. It’s so damn swollen, I can’t be on jury duty.’ That bitch need help because she ain’t deep!”

I couldn’t even begin to explain what any of that meant even if I felt fully awake, never mind first thing on a Monday morning. But I do know one thing: you can’t fight logic.

Touché, Sandy. Touché.

Color My World

2005-08-05T15:10:00.000-05:00

I need your help, Philadelphia residents. Can anyone please help figure out what is going on around the intersections of 12th and Locust and Walnut Streets? For the past week, there have been vans upon vans lining the side of the road. Out of the vans popped camera crews and a band of miscreants armed with paintbrushes and fluorescent paint. Earlier in the week, it just looked like they were painting the side of 12th Street Gym, but then as the days progressed; more and more things were being painted.

These painters and their film crews have attacked all of the sidewalks with in a block. They have painted buildings, mailboxes, and I kid you not, when I walking home yesterday I saw them painting a bus. A whole bus! I feel like if you walk slowly enough past them, they will paint you. Consider yourself warned. So much for being a peripatetic in the neighborhood.

Rainbows everywhere! We really don’t need any more rainbows. People get it. I think everyone can tell that it’s the gayborhood by the fact that there is some combination of 10 foot tall tranny hookers, a gigolo that looks like Little Orphan Annie (you know the one) or over-muscled freaks in sleeveless shirts on these corners at any given moment of the day.

I am not against art or the beautification of things in general.

I am trying to figure out why I am so enraged by this every time I walk by. First of all, everyone painting or filming just looks like a complete douchebag. I can’t put my finger on why, exactly, but they just do. I have a healthy, gut instinct about these things. Also, they are rude; they wouldn’t let me walk near them yesterday. That’s fine to tell me to cross the street, but they also made some poor woman in a wheelchair cross the road so she wouldn’t be in the way. They’re making me feel bad for the less fortunate. That’s really annoying!

An insider friend of mine reports that there was a mentally challenged person who was told to walk elsewhere, he got angry and started to yell at the paint crew. The person became so agitated that he fell. While normally, this would qualify as comedy gold, it just isn’t cool when you come to my hood and dis people. I wish I had enough street cred to get away with saying that.

Another friend of mine, JC, tried to put things in perspective for me, “At first I thought it was just to annoy me, but then I realized, it was just to annoy everyone.”

I need to do some more investigation, and I will try to post pictures soon. If anyone has any information or personal stories related to the painting of the streets, please send them my way.

Random closing thoughts:

Happy Birthday KC! Even though you hate my blog.

What is it about the past year of my life and boys with connections to Missouri? Again and again.

Someone buy me this shirt.

All weekend long, America’s Next Top Model Marathon on VH1.

Nervous breakdown is back! Drink to that a la hora feliz, hermanas y hermanos!

Heat Watch 2005: Drop Your Pants To Your Ankles

2005-08-04T13:57:00.000-05:00

My friend AB, a newly anointed PhD., sent me this joke. Since she’s a doctor of something now (Anatomy? Physiology? Neuro-somethingimportant? We can never remember here.), and you’re probably not, this joke may fly over your heads:

How many Bush supporters does it take to change a light bulb?

None. There is nothing wrong with the light bulb. Its condition is improving every day. Any reports of its lack of incandescence are a delusional spin from the liberal media. There is no shortage of filament. That light bulb has served honorably; anything you say undermines the lighting effect. Why do you hate freedom?

Also, thanks to the wonder of the internets, I have finally found the definitive guide to cornholing. Check out “how to play cornhole.” There are diagrams that involve way more throwing and an overabundance of holes than I remember from any sexual education class. Then again, my sex ed classes in high school consisted mostly of a man telling my fellow students and me that men couldn’t urinate and orgasm at the same time. And we all know that’s not true. Right? Right?!

Some time ago, a camp counselor for inner city kids called our office to see if he could bring a handful of kids here to see justice in action. We told him that we probably couldn’t provide that, exactly, at least not in this city. However, we invited him to bring what he described as “a few kids” to come see how our courtroom operates. You see where this is going, I hope.

Flash forward to this morning as someone from another court building 10 blocks away calls and screams into the phone, “We can’t operate a court with all these kids running around!” I literally didn’t have a clue what she was yelling about, so I told her to catch them and tranquilize them, a strategy that worked well for my parents. Eventually, we got on the same page and they sent 55 screaming varmints, more than “a few” by anyone’s definition, to our courtroom. Sandy sassed the little shits on a tour, and one of the kids escaped. He may still be in the building. I hope he finds the prison in the basement. Nothing teaches a lesson like some hard time.

Hey, I was in an elevator with a guy today who dropped his pants to his ankles to fix his underwear. That is all.

We won at quizzo last night by a point. Phew. Luckily for us, the last round was Full House questions. We learned that the 4 Kings in a deck of cards are based on Charlemagne, King David, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar and that Australian girls are the most likely to sleep with you on a first date. But don’t worry, no need to get all antipodean, I know plenty of easy American girls.

Finally - finally! – there is an “Overheard in Philly” blog where one can post the audible gems they collect on their daily commutes. And one most certainly should. At the very least, one should read it. Let’s face it, stupidity round these parts is a quotidian occurrence. In fact, the motto of the site is: “it’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity.” I feel like I should use stupidity one more time. Stupidity. Ok. Here are some highlights, or lowlights if you are a stick in the mud:

*Overweight teenage girl crossing street: "Damn. Why this street so wide?"Friend: "N*gga, this is Broad Street."

Broad & Arch

*Angry man on crutches: "Where am I? The same place I been for the past 2 hours you piece of shit! I'm gonna come over there with my crutches and beat the shit out of you and your friend you fucking piece of shit!!"

Payphone outside Pathmark, Port Richmond

*Birthday girl: "I love that halter top!"Halter girl: I got you one, you didn't see it? It's wrapped around the bottle of grain alcohol."

Birthday party, RUBA Club [editor’s note: I have been to the RUBA for a birthday party, and it is amazing.]

Guy on subway platform: "I think this mayor's doing a good job. People don't knock you down in the bathroom anymore."

Subway-Surface line, West Philadelphia

Schizophrenic: "First they had Tampax, then they had Kotex, now they got discotheques! What is going on here??!!"

Park bench, West Philadelphia

That tingly feeling you’re getting down there right now? That’s brotherly love. Or maybe it’s the heat. Ciao.

The Closest Yeast Ever Comes To My Package

2005-08-03T15:14:00.000-05:00

In an inadvertent effort to create the most white bred scene ever to appear in the Reading Terminal Market, I ordered a turkey dinner for lunch. There were mashed potatoes, gravy and cranberries. I was wearing a pink shirt with a starched collar, navy pants and a lovely tie that brought both ends together. I sat with my legs crossed and read the newspaper while I ate my meal. I could not have been more of a cracker if I were named Bradley Hawkins and was aching to get home to my new wife, Muffy. The hippies wafting of patchouli at the table next to me had visceral hate in their eyes. Sometimes I like not being the crazy pinko in a set of circumstances, but not often.

With my meal, I got to choose a big slice of bread from a variety of standard flavors. Naturally, I chose Wheat (as if there were any other choice), but I could only consume about half of it. It was a huge slice, about the size of both my hands put together, and I just couldn’t eat it all with the huge dinner I had before me. Betraying my white trash roots, I put the remainder of the bread in my pocket. I caught a snooty socialite with Lisa Loeb glasses give me a derisive look. Whatever bitch, you don’t know how good this bread is.

It occurred to me then that maybe she did know. Maybe her look was more jealousy than disgust. I thought about breaking her off a piece and throwing it in her direction, as that would be the best reaction to her mean look, whether it be envy or repugnance. Whore.

I dodged the sun under awnings all the way back to work, shielding whatever alabaster skin I hadn’t covered with a suit. I got in line for what is usually America’s least effective security check. Today the line was ironically being manned by two heavyset African American women. This was refreshing, since the male guards are more often than not repulsive to the women that walk through, especially those with tight jeans. I am not saying I am a woman in tight jeans; it's just annoying to watch them ogle disrespectfully. The women guards didn’t recognize me and one of them demanded to see my id. I couldn’t get the id out of my pocket without first removing the slice of wheat bread. With the bread in my hand, the following conversation took place:

Guard (G):That ain’t an id. That bread.
Z: Sorry. My id is in here somewhere.
G: Why you givin’ me rye bread?
Z: I’m not. It was just in the way of my id. And it’s wheat bread.
G: You know, we allowed to eat here. You don’t gotta sneak food in the building.
Other Guard: [mumbling] In your damn pockets.
Sassy woman in line behind me (SW): What’s the damn hold up?!
G: This boy got bread in his pocket.
SW: That’s cuz he need to feed his skinny ass.
[all sassy women involved laugh]
G: Alright baby, you can go. Next time bring a lunch bag.
SW: Check his other pocket for dessert!
[all sassy women involved laugh]
[Z walks away, dejected, crying on the inside, blushing, now pink as his shirt]

And…scene.

Take home lessons:
1) It’s simply futile to try and sneak food past a gaggle of overweight security guards. Guns, bombs, maybe even anthrax, but not food.
2) And a good slice of bread is worth any amount of embarrassment it may unexpectedly bring you.

Oh, and some people have been complaining that there hasn’t been enough Sandy-love on the blog lately. I couldn’t agree more. Here’s a Sandy quote of the day, regarding babies having babies, while on the phone with someone I presume is a friend (or at least someone she's met before- though maybe not):

“Bitch can’t even call WIC! If the stinky ass bitch would just keep her funky ass legs closed for one day of her life, she might not have stupid kids she got to kick around.”

I am not sure what it means, exactly, but what exquisite imagery! It kind of just tackles all five of your senses and beats them into submission, doesn’t it? Sorry enterprising marketers, Planned Parenthood has already called inquiring about buying the rights to the phrase to use as their new slogan.

I'm Funnier Than You; I Am The Wit

2005-08-01T15:31:00.000-05:00

The Wit

(73% dark, 30% spontaneous, 5% vulgar)your humor style:
CLEAN COMPLEX DARK

You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean you're pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.

I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer. Your sense of humor takes the most effort to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais

http://www.okcupid.com/tests/take?testid=17565214125862764376

It's not letting me post the link any other way.

He walks up to the closet; He comes up to the closet; Now he's at the closet; Now he's opening the closet...

2005-08-01T14:24:00.000-05:00

It’s August! This is the month when normal plebeians take the route of the Go-go’s and vacation (FYI: It’s all they ever wanted; they have to get away). Hell, even the President takes the whole month off, right after he sneaks in a special recess nomination of a man whose professional track record even his fellow Republicans find reprehensible. Sneaky, that one.

I, however, do not get the month off. In fact, I may have to get a second job to afford all the weddings and wedding-related activity in which I must participate for the next couple months. Therefore, all posts will be written under languid protest and with little enthusiasm. Accordingly, the reader should sit at his or her desk, dejected, and read with both the verve and tenor of an airplane hostage being held at gunpoint.

That said, the last vestiges of July have left me simply exhausted. On Friday, after explaining to my long lost cousin my stale recollection of the Uniform Probate Code, so that his slighlty longer and loster brother wouldn’t steal any of his inheritance, I made my way to Bump for happy hour. The hour was truly happy, as best I can recall; I just had a cosmopolitan IV attached to my arm to avoid messy spills. From there friends and I went to Tequila’s for a classy Mexican dinner. Luckily, we weren’t allergic to oxymorons. I kid. No one loves a Mexican more than I do, ask around.

That same night I toyed with the idea of seeing a movie, but since I was too drunk to understand English and nothing was being offered with subtitles, we postponed until the next day.

The next day I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with KD, after hopping out of bed more bright eyed and bushy tailed than I deserved to be. The movie was cute, much different than the original and creepy enough to keep me interested. I especially enjoyed anything the girl who played Veruca Salt did. Each of us has a little Veruca inside. I like seeing movies with KD because I know we are thinking completely different things when we are watching the films. He points out cool technical things to me and probably wonders why I am laughing at things no one else in the theater thinks is funny.

That night it was time for assclown’s bachelor party. As the token ‘mo at the party, I knew it would be my job to add equal parts snarky commentary and innocuous sass. If nothing else, I know my role. We ate an amazing dinner at Ristorante Panorama (which I couldn’t find for about 15 minutes because I am an idiot who thinks reading is optional). We then went to Sugarmom’s where we made assclown walk around with a shirt that said “chicks hate me” and get it signed by all the ladies. These women were surprisingly tame, and none of them took any suggestions I gave. These included, “Why are YOU the one that bent over?”; “Thanks for all the syphilis.” And what I wrote on my most Christian friend at his bachelor party, “Sucks dick for coke.”

The two prettiest girls we ran into that night connected with me immediately. Pretty attracts pretty, you know? We really hit it off, so instead of going to the nudie bar with the rest of the guys, I got to know them. They were hilarious and they decided that we were going to hang out for the rest of the night. Needless to say, as the rest of the bachelor party stumbled out of the bar, there was more than one jealous face as it became more and more apparent that the gay dude was the one going home with the ladies. It’s just how I roll, and besides, strippers are so déclassé. We eventually picked up ZD, went to his house to play drinking games and there may have been some making out involved. I know what you’re thinking, but I have broken boundaries before. I am legion. I am legend. I contain multitudes. It was a very fun night, nothing too amazing, but I will continue to let the rest of the bachelor party think that it was mind-blowing, near Biblical awesomeness.

After some sing-along action and what may be classified as petit theft, I eventually got back to my place sometime between 5 and 6. This was irresponsible for several reasons, one of which was that I was roped into helping move people in what would be a few hours. KD volunteered me, and so, I obliged. The two of us traveled to the burbs to pack a van so tight, it would squeal like a piggy. I learned two things: 1) I am not the least organized mover in the world, as I once thought. I am not even the worst of all my friends. And 2) I am not strong. That is all.

One of my other friends was moving stuff into her new place the same day. Instead of taking the time to catch up with each other, we clearly used the time to discuss something more important, R Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet” video series. I described them this way in an email this morning: the brilliance of spoken word poetry with Dickinsonian slant rhyme over percussive, yet somehow smooth, moaning. No words can capture the videos’ virtuosity. If you have not seen them, you must. They are a delight, even with the lack of pissing on fourteen year-old girls. You can add that yourself at home. I did.

Finally, one more faux-celebrity sighting notch to add to my bedpost: this week at bump, I saw Trading Spaces’ Doug Wilson. Who knew he was gay?! You can’t even tell from this picture above [warning: applies only to the blind].

Happy Monday, y’all.

Sit On My Face And Tell Me That You Love Me

2005-07-29T14:46:00.000-05:00

The following is a sad, but true, Friday afternoon, email conversation between me and my friend:

Friend: Look what I found today on gay.com:

man just looking to get rimmed and orally serviced tonight (I have a rim seat). No reciprocation...I only host...44 years old...white, 6-2, 275-pound long time lifter here in Delco (nearPhilly airport).Mmmmmmmm dare to dream.

Me: I feel like someone owes me an explanation about why that would be appealing to anyone's sensibilities. But, alas, I think no one has the answer. It's like trying to describe the color of the wind, or what God tastes like.

Friend: I asked what a rim seat was. He said:

Powerman***: a rim seat:
powerman***: is a toilet seat with short legs
powerman***: I sit on it with you under it face up...you get deep tounge [sic.] action into my muscle hole.

Mmmm….tastes like God!

Me: I knew I could count on you for investigation purposes! Thanks for guaranteeing that I never have an erection again.

Friend: I wrote:

friend: ahahahahahahahhahahaha
friend: no, no really, that sounds really nice...
friend: for me to POOP on!
friend: ahaha, I kid! I kidd....

Me: I would laugh at that if I were able to still feel emotions. So, are you meeting up with him tonight?

Friend: Well, it's more of a rendezvous. I think meeting sounds so business-like. What we have is romance.

Me: Jealous doesn't begin to describe how I feel. I wish I could be there to let you know if you have something on your face or in your teeth, like after lunch.

Friend: *retch*

Me: Ditto. Bye.

Who says this isn't the classiest, most insightful blog around?

And with that, Happy Weekend! Is it happy hour yet?

You Asked...I Answered!

2005-07-28T15:18:00.000-05:00

Today readers, it’s all about you! As the moderator of a very, very popular blog, you can only imagine the number of questions I get from people. Let me take this opportunity to answer what’s been weighing on some of your minds.

What’s your favorite thing about today in relation to history?

Good question. My favorite thing about today is that it is the one year anniversary of my completion of the bar exam. If you took a time machine backwards exactly one year to visit me, you would probably find me huddled in the fetal position in a corner eating my hair. Other things I love about today in history: In 1896, the city of Miami, FL, was incorporated and in 1994 Kenny Rogers (Texas Rangers) pitched the 14th perfect game in major league baseball history. So talented! And you thought he was just the Gambler!

What are your favorite and least favorite things about Mississippi?

Hmm, favorite? Obviously, H. T. Merrill of Iuka, Mississippi flew the first round-trip transoceanic flight in 1928. The flight to England was made in a plane loaded with ping-pong balls, which makes it pretty awesome.

My least favorite (besides Trent Lott) would have to be that every commercial airliner has at least one hydraulic component manufactured by Vickers in Jackson, Mississippi. Sorry, I am just a control freak.

Why does the United States have such a corrupt government?

Good question. I, personally, would never trust a President who calls his most trusted aide, Turd Blossom. But it turns out that the Untied States is only the 112th most corrupt nation in the world. This is according to a study that included perceptions of the degree of corruption as seen by business people, academics and risk analysts, and ranges between 0 (highly clean) and 10 (highly corrupt). Includes police corruption, business corruption, political corruption, etc. for the year 2003.

Maybe you should do more research next time, rather that blindly throwing stones at our sturdy pillars of public service. Also, stop watching the news. What you need to do now is wrap your self in an American flag, put on a pair of cowboy boots and nail a copy of the 10 Commandments to your front door. And start praying that you never have to live in Nigeria or Bangladesh. Next!

What is your guilty pleasure television show that you don’t feel guilty about watching even though it’s about Canadian teenagers?

That’s an easy one. It’s obviously DeGrassi Junior High: The Next Generation. This show is awesome for so many reasons. First of all, it’s a lot of ugly Canadian kids that drink, get depressed, and have sex with each other all the time. But unlike, in America, the Canadian kids actually have to deal with the consequences of their actions. For example, the goody-two-shoes of the show, Emma, just got gonorrhea of the throat a couple weeks ago. Now everyone thinks she's a ho. Which? She is. One of the guys on the show had a bi-polar melt down and trashed a hotel room after his 10th grade girlfriend turned down his proposal while they were dancing at her dad’s gay marriage ceremony! Read that sentence again slowly and let it all sink in. The same guy who had a meltdown got a cheerleader pregnant last year, and she had to have an abortion. What the hell is an abortion?!

The real best part of the show is that they have to edit the Canadian version to make it safe for American television and its puritanical viewers. The New York Times even did a super secret expose on this controversy. It makes sense since most Americans don’t know much about erections or abortions, and both will likely be illegal soon anyway. DeGrassi: It goes there.

What is the heat index anyway?

The heatwave has broken in the Illadelph. It was lovely to enter the office this morning and not be absolutely soaking wet. It does not help that the weather has been so humid, in addition to being so fucking hot. As a coal-cracker from up north, this is not the kind of weather my people were built for. According to the heat index, it was reaching temperature of near 110 degrees here. Hey, wait. What the hell is a heat index? Slate.com says:

The heat index tells you how hot it feels at a given humidity. Moist air feels hotter than dry air because it makes sweating less efficient. On a hot, dry day, your sweat will evaporate quickly and cool your skin; under humid conditions, sweat evaporates more slowly and doesn't do as much. Just as the wind chill attempts to measure how cold it feels under certain wind conditions, the heat index tries to measure how hot it feels given the humidity.

Basically, this is why Philadelphia feels like hell during the summer. And this is why I don’t have a valid reason to punch people in the mouth next time they say, “It’s hot, but it’s ok because it’s a dry heat.”

Just kidding. I will still punch them. Hard. Hot is hot, y'all.

Duh. Don’t say I never teach you anything. Please send me any and all of your questions via comments or email (zachary.wilcha@gmail.com). I will answer.

Also, today was the last day for the summer intern in our office, sadly. Like any good intern worth her weight in blue dresses, her name is Monica. She will be missed for many reasons, including, but certainly not limited to the fact that I will have to start doing the work that she was doing as an ardent overachiever. Since I am decidedly rarely eager to do any more work than is asked of me, her presence will be missed. Also, she was very cheery and would stop me from choking people by their necks. A bientot, Monique!

Hot Child In The City

2005-07-27T14:20:00.000-05:00

Sorry, I didn’t post yesterday. I heard from several displeased readers. If you must know, I was busy trying to build a fan for my office, MacGyver-style out of 3 tampons, a curling iron and a pogo ball. You don’t even want to know why I had all of those items. Anyhow, I’m now back to wasting your time and curbing your productivity. Onward, you impatient, petulant bitches! (Kidding! I love the attention.)

So, the death parade in my family marches on intrepidly to the pearly gates. I should warn you before you feel too bad for me that this time is not nearly as sad as when my grandmother died. My dad’s uncle passed away last weekend. My brother called me on Saturday morning before noon, breaking a cardinal family rule. I answered the phone, saying, “Did you forget how to tell time?” He replied, “No, Uncle Harold died.” “Of what?” “I don’t know, I’m going back to bed.” “OK, later.”

I later found out that Harold had some sort of aneurysm and had died of stomach complications during the night. He treated my dad like a son because he had estranged relations with his own two sons. You see, on the way to my parents ill-fated wedding, he, his wife Rita, and his two sons were in a horrible car accident. The accident rendered Aunt Rita unable to speak and mentally incompetent, and Harold took great care of her ever since.

The fallout resulted in tearing his family apart, and he ended up kicking his two sons out of his house. One of the sons, Mark, stayed in touch with my dad, and the other has been missing ever since. Mark spoke to his mom for the first time when he flew home for his father’s funeral. Weird and sad. Also, for those of you keeping track, they told my mom right before she walked down the aisle at her wedding that Harold’s family was all probably dead. Here comes the bride!

The funeral was this week, and I didn’t get to go to it. My Dad went and told Mark that I would help him take care of any legal matters since Harold did not leave a will. (Please have a will, people, for the sake of everyone.) My Dad loves to promise that I will do things for people, especially when I am unable to do them. Never mind the fact, that I am not at all qualified to help Mark do this, but it’s also probably illegal for me to try and practice New York law, which is where I think the will would have been made. Mark called me today, and I will call him back later to have the awkward conversation. God, lawyers are all such assholes!

Anyway, on a less sad note, one thing that I loved about Harold is that for most holidays, he would send money to my father to give to the kids. He would send $40, and designate $10 for my brother, $10 for my sister and $20 for me. No one knows why he sent me more money than the others, no one really talked about it, save for my bragging. But he did it, which leads me to believe that he died with killer instincts and great taste. R.I.P.

Ok, enough heavy shit…How about some unrelated topics for filler today?

So, it’s totally hot outside. I don’t know if you guys got the memo, but there are record-breaking high temperatures in Philadelphia. I feel like I am going to pass out every time I walk outside. It makes me very cranky. I kicked a homeless person today on my lunch break and THAT didn’t even make me feel better. I need some relief soon, or dog only knows what I will do.

Have you ever walked out of your apartment on the way to the gym and forgot that you didn’t put your shorts on and were standing outside in your hallway in just your boxer briefs? No? In that case, me neither.

My new summer guilty pleasure? Big Brother. I can’t stop watching it or reading about it online. My new summer reality tv boyfriend is Kaysar, an Iraqi national who brings a brooding hotness and strategic intelligence to my television screen 3 nights a week. He's hot. Whatever, don’t judge me.

Remember that time you went to the mall when you were home from college one summer, specifically to harass Jodie Sweetin from television’s Full House? Remember when you screamed asking her if she ever did doggy with Comet? Oh, that wasn’t you; that was me. Well, if you’re jealous and want to simulate the experience, go here, the One Stop Jodie Shop. As my friend MC, says, “Yes, it's the Web's premier Jodie Leanne Sweetin site. TV's "Full House"'s Stephanie Tanner gets the royal treatment here, with photos, sounds, live chat and, our favorite, a list of all the Stephanie books from the "Full House" books series! Titles include Hip Hop Till You Drop, The Dude of My Dreams and the extra creepy Daddy's Little Girl. Oh, and don't forget about Never Trust a Flamingo, in which Uncle Jesse drinks some punch spiked by a costumed Kimmy Gibler.” Delightful!

One of my friends was on the Howard Stern Show this morning competing to become his “hottest, most knowledgable” listener. Or something. She didn’t win, but she should have. And now, I know a celebrity.

They are rerunning the second season of Arrested Development this summer on FOX, starting this Friday at 8:00. It’s the funniest shit ever. Don’t believe me? See below, thanks.

I think I may walk home from work naked. Say something nice soon!

Baby, You Can Drive My Car (Beep Beep, Beep Beep, Yeah!)

2005-07-25T15:37:00.000-05:00

Judge Fabulous is back in da house. She rolled up to the CJC in her Benzo, all dope and fly. I was waiting outside in the rain, as her valet, courier and concierge all rolled into one skinny nerd. The bad news is that now I will have to shoulder the expectations of being on time for work and not falling asleep at my desk. But the upside is that I get to wear business suits again, you know, the kind that makes the fellas want to be me and the ladies want to do me. Though, I would ostensibly prefer the opposite.

I finished writing an opinion for the Judge, and then I was kind of expecting to coast for the remainder of the day. Then all of a sudden, my phone rang. It was the special line that never rings. It was the Judge’s personal line, our equivalent of the Bat-phone.

I answered with trepidation. Could my opinion have been that bad? It could have been, but that’s not what she wanted. She said, “I have an emergency errand, please come to the courtroom, and bring an envelope.” I figured unless she was going to try to kill me with papercuts, I should be ok.

I arrived in the robbing room and gave her the envelope. Inside it she placed a slip of paper, taped it shut several times and in large letters scribed on the back of it: PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. I wonder if she didn’t want me to see what was in the envelope. She wrote an address on it, and asked me to take the envelope to said address and pick up an envelope in return. Quid pro quo (sorry, I feel like I should be using my Juris Doctor at some point). I was now in an episode of 24, and I was ok with that.

I told her I would walk where she wanted, and she said, “No, take the car.” Fear. Dread. I said, “No thanks, I should walk. It’s a beautiful day.”

“No, you’re taking the car. And you’ll be careful with it.”

The Judge’s car, from what I understand is beautiful and expensive. I don’t know anything about cars. I couldn’t care less about them, as long as they get me from here to there. I have no clue want kind of Mercedes it is, but I know it’s big and black and worth more than my entire life, if one can even quantify such a thing. My roots are far too white-trash to deserve to drive this thing. I was already running through the myriad nightmare scenarios that could occur while I was in charge of the vehicle. At my new job, after I got fired for crashing the car, I would have to put away a certain amount of money per week, so that I could afford to repair it.

“Are you familiar with hazard lights?” she asked. I replied affirmatively and promised to use them when the clandestine envelopes were exchanged outside of the assigned building. Didactic, but forgivable since I look rather inept sometimes.

With resignation, I approached the car. Its headlights stared deep into my eyes and let me know without beeping a word that I was destined to meet my downfall at its wheels. I got in the car, grabbed both hands with the steering wheel (where they would both stay the entire drive) and blinked for the last time for the amount of time it takes to drive 15 city blocks.

I am not a bad driver, but I never realized how crazy I was with my car until I was driving the most expensive car I had ever entered. I drive a Ford Focus, which is known primarily for being the official car of American Idol. Yes, I know. You don’t need to say a word. At one intersection, I almost hit a homeless man with the car, and couldn’t help but imagine the headlines in the Inquirer the next day, “Incompetent Clerk Bowls Over Homeless Angel in Judge’s Deathmobile.” I giggled a little, because, well, you can’t have vehicular manslaughter without the laughter. Think about it.

I arrived at the appointed location and parked the car with its hazard lights on, as instructed. Only one problem: there was no such building with the address on the envelope. I started to sweat more, which I thought was impossible. There was supposed to be someone waiting on the street for me to arrive; he was nowhere to be found. Basically, it was going precisely the way I would have predicted.

I found the building with a placard that matched the secret name on the envelope. I rang the doorbell and the dumbest man in America opened the door. “Hi, I am here to exchange envelopes.” Him: blank stare. Minute passes. Sigh. “Uh, come in.” When he went to fetch his instructions from a higher power (his boss, God, whomever, etc.) I looked out at the judge’s car.

Then I screamed. Literally. There was a moving van trying to get around the car, and someone was trying to direct the crazy man behind the steering wheel. One of them screamed, “Is this your car.” I whimpered, “Yes! I mean, No! I mean, I am in charge of it, so I guess it’s kind of mine right now, but I don’t actually own it. The registration is not technically in my name, but I can move it if you want, in fact, I should, let me move it, I can do it right now.” The man said, “No, it’s cool we got it under control.”

Part of me was thinking about hopping in front of the truck, Tiananmen Square style, and stopping the foreboding injustice, but the other part of me was wondering how I would pay the dry cleaner to remove the shit stains from my pants after I was fired from my job. The truck got by. Breathe. The man said to me, “Yo, nice car. You mean someone let’s YOU drive around in this shit all day.” I said, “No. It’s not like that at all.” He said, “Some brothers have all the luck.” Readers note: he was not my actual brother, and we were both white as a ghost. I was probably actually a little green at that point, to tell you the truth.

I drove back and parked the car in its happy spot, a bit shaken, but not stirred. I handed the keys back to the judge with the envelope (which contained glasses…glasses!).

Even though it’s one million degrees outside, I will be happy, for just this once, to walk home free of the tyranny of driving a fancy, expensive car.

Dianetics, Back Alley Blow Jobs and Luther Vandross

2005-07-22T13:18:00.000-05:00

Yesterday on the street, I was accosted by a man handing out Scientology paraphernalia and wearing a shirt that said “Dianetics: Read It!” And of course, by “accosted,” I mean, I ran up to him and asked him for information. Everyone who walked past him flashed him a dirty look or offered him a derisive laugh, so I think he was really psyched that I was paying attention to him. Little did he know that I am just a sick guy who loves a good cult. He was handing out pamphlets inviting unsuspecting, spiritually poor and disaffected people to come to a free screening of “Orientation,” a L. Ron Hubbard film at your closest Church of Scientology.

The movie “answers your questions about Scientology. You’ll find out what Scientology can do for you and how to take your next step.”

Hey, I need to take a next step! I know that Scientology is a huge pyramid scheme/possible sex cult, in which you have to pay tons of money to gain higher levels of enlightenment, but I want to go see this movie so I can tell everyone about it. Maybe I could even meet Xenu or Tom Cruise! Please let me know, dear reader, if you’re interested in being my very special date to a very special cult indoctrination. It will be all kinds of very special. My only fear going into this is that they might tie me down and do naughty things to me. Normally I wouldn’t mind this, but I know how their “church” feels about the love that dare not speak its name. So, I probably wouldn’t be invited to your average Scientologist’s breakfast table. But that’s fine, since I probably wouldn’t want to eat their sausage anyway.

Today in craigslist fun, someone makes the mistake of picking a whore with an active gag reflex. If only there were only a way to tell before she pukes on your junk. I think we’ve all been here:

You were the drunk girl in the Alley torn jeans and a lime green top. Real pretty. You asked me if you gave me a bj would I give you some money. You then threw up on my penis and I smacked you in the face, and spit in your hair. Wanted to say sorry about that, and see if your up for going out this weekend.

The fact that this man believes in second chances makes me forgive him for the fact that is grammar makes me sic. (Ha. Latin editorial jokes rule!) Like my mom never used to say: always be prepared to get thrown up on when being fellated in a dark alley by someone in torn jeans.

I woke up at 2:00 am, and I couldn’t fall back to sleep for a couple hours. I think I was still drunk from a happy hour that turned into 4 hours that I went to after work. So, of course, I walked downstairs in my undies and finished the half-eaten burrito that was on my coffee table. I was the very picture of refinement and panache. It’s probably moments like these when people with more self-awareness realize that they have hit rock bottom. I put on the television and saw some amazing things; it’s been a while since I have been conscious that late on a weeknight (which also makes me a total loser).

First, I watched an entire infomercial concerning the 144 Greatest R&B ballads of all time. I want it more than anything. It’s a 10 CD set of all songs by really old, black people. I estimate that a healthy 14% of the songs are by Luther Vandross and/or Marvin Gaye. This infomercial had actual testimonials from real-life, fat African American couples that this music collection brought sexual spice back into their relationships. If Patti LaBelle songs can do this for these people, then I think we should be sending Anita Baker and Peabo Bryson to Iraq to grapple with peace in the Middle East. Also, I like to think that if Barry White were alive, President Bush would have appointed him to the Supreme Court this week. Can you imagine how great the confirmation hearings were if Barry were there to lull us into a sex coma with his deep, dulcet tones. Damn.

Next, I watched my favorite news show of all time, World News Now. This is a news show in which ABC hires people who have flunked out of journalism school, takes away their Ritalin and Prozac and lets them talk about anything they want. Because its on so late and their target demographic is insomniacs, serial killers and their overlap, they just sort of sit around and laugh at serious news stories and each other. They always hire a gay-vague, attractive, snarky guy to make fun of a really pretty girl, and both of them are the anchors. Anderson Cooper used to be one of the anchors, for example. Ron Corning is my new network news boyfriend. No one cares. One of their weather reports I watched when I was in college said, “Aurora, Illinois: Excellent!”

If you don’t get the brilliance of that joke, you are either too young or too old for me to bother with you. Stop reading this and immediately rent Wayne’s World. Anyway, my point is, every Thursday, the show ends the week with the World News Now polka. Somehow the Pulitzer and Peabody committees have failed to take notice of this zenith of journalistic integrity. For your sake, please don’t be as flippant about this oversight as they are.

If I told you that I called a radio station and dedicated “Everybody’s Working For The Weekend,” by Loverboy, it would be unfair. It would imply that I have been working.

More Roberts Communication

2005-07-20T16:16:00.000-05:00

This time a text message conversation with GA:

[in response to the last post]
GA: In some pics, the Nominee looks like Steve Carrell.
Z: Good Call! I think I would do him.
GA: Way to whore out your beliefs for a hotty. This is why we're friends.
Z: 100% You know you love him, too.
GA: I love anyone who has the ability to ruin my life.
Z: Be careful. If he gets you pregnant, you'll stay that way.

More uber-intellectual banter to come...

Reparative Therapy and Justice For All

2005-07-20T14:21:00.000-05:00

When there’s a new Supreme Court nominee on tap, and you need some 411 on the man, who ya gonna call? Me. Last night, I felt like a member of the media elite, as several characters in the story of my life gave me a ring to see how I felt about the latest potential Supreme. My favorite call of the day, and maybe the week so far, would have to be from my younger brother. He is a 24 year-old, civil engineer who possesses in construction and spacial relations knowledge (much) what he lacks in eighth grade civics know-how. Hey, whatever, my dad describes him as his “employable son,” and Checks and Balances are SO 1990’s. Says Roberts about your fetus: "We continue to believe that Roe was wrongly decided and should be overruled." Sah-weet!

So anyway, my brother NW, found out some disturbing things yesterday. To wit:

[ring ring]
Z: Yo.
N: So wait a second, the President just like gets to appoint a dude to the Court.
Z: Yeah, but it has to be confirmed by the Senate.
N: But he just gets to, like, pick anyone he wants? That’s insane.
Z: Kind of. But the nominee still has to be confirmed.
N: That makes the President way powerful. He could pick anyone!
Z: Well, yeah, but it still has to be confirmed. And I told you all this shit around the election.
N: You’re not going to believe this, but I actually care now. Who’s it going to be?
Z: I don’t know, some woman named Edith? One of two Ediths actually.
N: Weird. Who knew there were two important judges named Edith?
Z: Who knew there were two people in America named Edith?

And so on and so forth. Anyway, none of us should be surprised that Bush went for the “Go For Broke” candidate instead of a more consensus candidate. I won’t harp about it, but of course, I think that the move could be disastrous for constitutional interpretation as we know it. I think he will be confirmed easily in the Senate after a dirty period of media attacks from those self-absorbed liberals. My only solace is that he is remarkably handsome for a scholar of law and looks a lot like Pat Sajak. Or a really Republican John Edwards (remember him?!). Or a guy who rides hookers way hard, talks tons during the sex and leaves lousy tips. Thus concludes my intellectual summary of thoughts on the new Supreme Court Justice. If you would rather read about topic this in cogent form and thoughtful prose by people who know their Substantive Due Process from their elbow, click here or here.

Also, it’s weird how this high-profile, prime time television announcement coincides with a Karl Rove scandal that the administration is trying to bury. That is like, way, Alanis Morrisette ironic.

Salon.com is running a great article about a man who fakes being a homosexual so that he could experience conversion or “reparative” therapy. This, for those of you not in the know, is when you take one gay, add faux-science, fear of God, empty promises or a pinch of shock therapy, to produce one ex-gay. The article begins like this:

Barry Levy, a Christian counselor and licensed clinical social worker, is explaining to me what causes homosexuality. "Take the young boy who is more sensitive, more delicate, who doesn't like rough-and-tumble, who is artistic," he says. "He can't hit the ball, fire the gun or shoot an arrow. There is a high correlation between poor eye-hand coordination and same-sex attraction."

Jigga what?! Now, yes, I was always been more sensitive, delicate and artistic than your average child. But that’s only because I was always way smarter. Not to mention the fact that I was a Cub Scout prodigy with a rifle. For some reason, I have always been an amazing shot, which bothered my troop leaders who would always describe me to my parents as being a “smart ass.” This just goes to show you that I have always been more appreciative of the First Amendment than the Second.

I would beat all the other kids in shooting contests and I liked dudes. Were I not so recalcitrant a youngster, I would have made it all the way to Eagle Scout. (Note: I probably still would beat most people in a shooting contest and I still like dudes.) As for my hand-eye coordination, no one could ever beat me at Mario-related Nintendo games. The article goes on to highlight the serious, harrowing details of the therapy. It’s at once hysterical, sad and frightening.

No, I haven’t read the new Harry Potter book yet, but I understand it’s about a half-blood mulatto or something? Please don’t ruin the plot for me, thanks!

Forget It, Jake. It's Chinatown.

2005-07-18T14:09:00.000-05:00

One of the many joys of working where I do is that my building is located right near Philadelphia’s version of Chinatown. This is a magical land where one can procure all the chicken and rice that one can fit in one’s pretty mouth and only need $4.25 from one’s wallet. (plus tip! Don't be a Rachel Ray!) Cheap, sure, but a prize so great (and tasty!) certainly almost always comes at a higher price than the menu could possibly explain.

The place where I ate today is a hole in the wall across from the place where I usually eat. It’s so authentically hardcore Chinese that they don’t even advertise the name of the restaurant on the outside of the building in English. Represent! Once I stepped inside, I realized to my chagrin that there were no empty tables available. I was ready to leave and exercise the option to solicit any of the 50 other Chinese palaces (some of them actually named Palace) that were at the tip of my fingers, but before I could go a demure elf of a woman with demonic eyes grabbed my arm, pointed at a table and yelled, “You go there!” She pointed to a large, circular table where a woman was already seated; the strength of her grip on my arm let me know that not only was it perfectly acceptable for me to sit there, but that my choice in the matter had expired once she grabbed me.

I sat down compliantly and politely smiled at the woman across from me. She did not reciprocate; in fact, she looked right through me as if I weren’t even there. I picked up my book and started to read it, and she banged her fist on the table, picked up her cell phone and called someone. Normally I love to listen to people speaking Chinese. It’s a very sing-songy language in which tonal change denotes completely different meanings of words. That fascinates me, although I have no desire to ever learn a language with a different alphabet.

ANYWAY, I am not sure if there is a Chinese Mafia in Philadelphia (I hope there is.), but if there is, this is the place where they eat. I was the only cracker in the place, and everyone else was Chinese and very, very serious. I feel like everyone there knew one another since people were screaming from table to table with reckless abandon. It could be that everyone was friends, but my life and story and much more exciting if I entertain the possibility that there is mafia-talk occurring in my presence in a language I don’t even understand. Simply chilling.

A man who was slurping his soup with the ferocity of a two-dollar whore in a fastest blow-job contest picked his head up for a moment to belch and then screamed something in Chinese. Whatever he screamed must have been hi-larious, as the whole restaurant, save for the honky with his fancy book, erupted into the kind of laughter usually reserved for Carrot Top specials. Another woman sat at my table, and she must have known the woman who was already seated there. She gave me a derisive look and then a quick smile. I imagine she was initially pissed that someone was sitting with her and her friends and then realized that the idiot with them would have frickin’ idea about anything they conversed about. She probably thought, “I bet this jackass actually uses forks.” (I do.)

My food came, but not as quickly as the food came for these two women. They had the table manners of a Fat Camp refugee. They both chewed with their mouths open, maybe my biggest pet peeve. I am not being exclusively culturally insensitive either. I have dear friends, whom I love very much, that are so polite in every day life, but once you sit them down to eat, they chew like cows. Why is that? WHY?! And don’t get me started on how I used to insist on sitting at a different table than my dad when we ate together. I was a charming kid.

One woman was actually chewing her soup, which until today I thought was impossible, or at least an exercise in futility. It still may be the latter, as I did not discuss eating strategy with the woman.

The other woman had some kind of crab and vegetable dish. And here’s where I almost lost my lunch. She would put a crab leg in her mouth, chew it as hard and fast as she could, and then stick chop sticks in her mouth to retrieve the pieces of shell. She collected the crab shrapnel on her plate, where it would stay until she picked up each piece at the end of her meal and sucked the remnants of meat from each piece. This woman was vicious. She had hustle. She was indefatigable. I was scared to death.

I ate my meal as best I could, paid the de minimus tab and bolted. Everyone looked at me when I left. It was so uncomfortable, but I will definitely return to eat there again. Because, let’s not kid ourselves, I would eat at a table with Charles Manson to get a full meal for $4.25.

On the way out of the restaurant, a man in a flash fusion concert series T-shirt ran up to me, and the following conversation, if you can call it that, transpired. If you and a friend are acting it out as a play, please read the Man on the Street part as loudly as possible. To say he was enthusiastic would be an understatement.

MoS: Do you love hip hop?
Z: It’s ok.
MoS: Do you LOVE Fat Joe?
Z: No.
MoS: Do you want to see Fat Joe in concert?
Z: …
MoS: Lean Back! Lean Back! What?!
Z: Not really.
MoS: Well, here’s 2 free tickies to the FREE Fat Joe concert.
Z: Thank you, sir.

[MoS runs away to assault a woman who claims to speak no English. Z enviously wishes he employed similar technique. Z takes deep breath, walks away.]

And.....scene.

Apparently, there is a free Fat Joe concert to which I have 2 free tickets. The venue is a secret until Wednesday when it will be posted online, and I have the secret password to decipher the hidden location. I don’t even care enough to figure it out. And I hate fat people, duh. So, if anyone wants these “tickies,” please be in touch. My IM screen name is in my profile.

Today’s events all lead me to one important question: If I love Asian people so much and I hate fat people so much, how does my heart really feel about Sumo wrestlers?

I am so fucking Zen right now. Peace.

I Yell Like This Because I Love You

2005-07-18T10:42:00.000-05:00

My best friend, Craigers, supplied me with interesting information this weekend. Guess who wants you, homos and fruit flies?! (Hint: Not Uncle Sam).

The Tyra Banks Talk Show Wants You...

Are you a woman who’s in love a gay man and want to tell him?

Are you a gay man who has a female friend who is in love with you?

Are you a woman who’s attracted to gay men? Do you try to date gay men despite their attraction to the same sex? Do friends think you’re crazy?

If so, please call *** toll-free at 888-569-*** or e-mail her at ***. [Redacted because I am not here to help you].

That's right, y'all. Tyra(nt) Banks is starting her own talk show, and she needs a panel of crazy fag hags and the flamers they inappropriately love. I kind of want to go on the show, so if anyone is interested in pretending that she lusts after my lithe body, email me, we'll talk. If I get no takers, I am just going to pretend that I am going to be on the show; and be warned: I will talk about it constantly. Two of my high school friends and I convinced our senior year Honors English (Yes, there was a big difference with Honors classes, whatever.) teacher that we were going to be on the Carnie Wilson Show (called Carnie!) so that we could skip a day of school. The made-up topic was "My High School Bully Needs a Makeover." Sadly, the show was cancelled in an untimely fashion, so we were not able to skip school under that brilliant guise. Damn you, Carnie!

Moreover, I am so happy that Miss Tyra's talk show will help reinforce her pre-Copernican notion that the world revolves around her. In many ways, it does. Thus, I curse her singly for her mastery of the ways of the runway and her ability to sass and head-bob her way through the best television show in the history of the medium. I curse her doubly for recording music with little regard for anyone's musical sensibilities or well-being (See "Shake Ya Body," but proceed with caution.) . And I curse her trebly for being so damn fine!

However, after the wonder that is "Being Bobby Brown," I will not rest until Whitney Houston has her own talk show. She will take you behind over there, behind that tree, and work. You. Over.

That's Eccentric, No?

2005-07-14T14:25:00.000-05:00

I have had my second pseudo-celebrity sighting (yay alliteration!) in as many weeks in the good old Gayborhood of Philadelphia. And of course, by “Gayborhood”, I mean 4 square blocks with about four bars and tons of tranny hookers. Yesterday, not once, but twice, I saw the runner up from Bravo’s Manhunt, Rob Williams. The show was maybe the worst reality show ever, unless you love closet-case pretty boys with fragile egos and rock hard pecs. Which I do. It could never achieve the pure, unadulterated brilliance of America’s Next Top Model. I walked past him twice at different times on the same block, which makes me think he might have just been loitering for the sake of attention. How transparent can one get! Sadly, I must report that in person he is devastatingly handsome. Thankfully, he stumbled a little bit on a sidewalk crack, which made me feel better about myself.

When I passed him the first time, my stomach actually kind of dropped when I saw his eyes- they're that pretty. I was on the way home from the gym, so I looked rode hard and put to bed wet; I was in no state to talk to someone so beautiful. The second time, I passed him from behind. He stopped to look at posters on a building. I had my chance. I thought about saying hello, but I didn’t want to feed the ego of some reality television star. Also, I probably would have stumbled over my words, which would have made him think that a.) I was “special” or b.) he was so important and good looking that I couldn’t effectively communicate. He would have been correct on both counts. I wonder if he’s my new neighbor. If anyone has the scoop, please elucidate!

Yesterday on my lunch hour, since I had no time or money, I went shopping. I bought a nice summer suit for some upcoming weddings. I was with Chop, and he basically peer pressured me into buying it. It’s light tan with a baby blue shirt underneath. I am still not entirely sure that I can pull it off without looking like Crockett and/or Tubbs, but I am willing to give it a try. I let assclown know that I will be subsidizing payment of the suit by taking away a portion of his wedding gift, since some of my justification for buying it was so that I could look uber-hot for his wedding. Chop assures me that it was a good purchase, and since it pains him to compliment me, I took his sentiment to be sincere. If you come to my apartment, I will try it on for you.

Got a call from an ex last night, CF. He’s all borderline nervous breakdown studying for the bar exam and wanted to let me know he was alive. Duly noted. Also, he wanted to know if I were making any references to him on the blog, since he didn’t interpret the last one as favorable. I assured him that I struggle every day to think about things to write that don’t involve him, but somehow I muddle through. There's a reference for you, C! :) That said, he should do very well on the bar exam; he’s a hard worker.

Hey! Maybe this Karl Rove thing will slowly escalate into a maddening roller coaster of secrets and lies, a tangled web he wove, if you will (And, oh, you will.), rivaling Watergate for inspiring distrust of a corrupt administration and its shady politicking! Eh, or not.

What Americans want in the new Supreme Court Justice picked to replace (the irreplaceable in our hearts) Sandra Dee: a Hispanic woman who wouldn't alter ‘Roe v. Wade.' Are these Baja Fresh-eating, fetus killers the same people who elected George Bush II to the White House twice? Well, America is probably right that appointing a minority woman to a high government post ensures that Liberal views will triumph over all. Right, Condoleeza?

Emmy nominations were unveiled this morning. If Arrested Development doesn’t clean up, y’all crazy.

Finally, it’s been a while since Sandy the Secretary has uttered a gem worthy publication. Today Sandy got a phone call from Judge Fabulous, calling from the distant shores of Italy. She was calling to inquire about a cheap ring that she lost that she believes a cleaning lady stole. (FYI: no one would steal this ring.) She called during her dinner to see if Sandy and I would search her office, moving furniture around, to make sure the world’s tackiest ring wasn’t hidden away. Commenting on the fact that the Judge called during her dinner to demand the ring-hunt:

S: What’s that word that’s like ezentrix?
Z: Eccentric?
S: That’s it. You know how everyone says that the homosexuals are eccentric?
Z: I do now.
S: Well, all the ezentrix people I know are straight.
Z: Eccentric. Do you mean crazy when you say that?
S: Motherfucking crazy. But I bet some gays are ezentrix, too.
Z: I can’t deny that. Eccentric.
S: Shit, I know you can’t. Extenrix?
Z: Eccentric.

And you can’t deny it either. Go Phillies. I will be at the game tonight.

Hunan Relations

2005-07-13T09:49:00.000-05:00

The last 2 times I ate Chinese food, the cookies dealt me these fortunes:

*Trust him, but still keep your eyes open.*

*Our first and last love is...self-love.*

Am I so transparent that even cookies know that I am a naive, yet paranoid, chronic masturbator? You don't have to answer that.

Catching Up On Correspondence

2005-07-12T14:08:00.000-05:00

Dear Tires Plus:

Hi, it’s me. As I have said before, I admire that you hired a half-deaf midget (little person) to man the front desk of your King of Prussia location. And I don’t even really mind that he addresses me as Cathary and has changed your records to reflect that Cathary is, in fact, my real name. It was rare that my parents even got my name right on the first try, so I respond to just about anything. Just please don’t call me “Late for dinner.” Right? But seriously.

What I do mind, however, is when your midget screams, “Hey Pinky!” into the waiting room to tell me my car is ready, just because I happen to be wearing a pink polo shirt. I prefer Cathary to Pinky, albeit narrowly. Thanks!

Bravely, Z

Dear Dad:

What up, big guy? I understand we have had our disagreements in the past. For example, I prefer the Beatles to the Stones and you prefer me to be celibate while I would rather make out with dudes. We’ve worked through a lot, but there are some things you should know. I don’t agree with you that sterilization is a viable option for ending poverty in Africa, despite your claims otherwise. I never intend to be contrarian, at least not purposefully, but I must dissent from your assessment that the only way to end the war on terror is to drag terrorists’ families into the street and kill them publicly. It’s just messy!

Have you been talking to the guys from tires plus? They call me Pinky, and you call me Pinko. Quelle coincidence!

Also, my hair’s not too long. Thumb rings in and of themselves are not “faggy.” And I don’t go out drinking every night.

Fruit of your loins, Z

Dear Security Guards at the CJC:

Hey fellas. I am hyper-aware that terror is on everyone’s minds these days. How could it not be at the forefront of the mind of every responsible, patriotic American citizen? That’s why I think it was perfectly reasonable to stop me the other morning and ask for 2 forms of identification. A less wary guard would have thought that my building ID would have sufficed. But you, my friends, would put that guard to shame! I also understand that despite the fact that my bag looked fine through the x-ray machine, it was still necessary to go through it and pull out each magazine I was reading and to examine exactly which Tastykake I would ingest as a midday snack. I don’t even mind that you let some of your friends through security without being checked out! Fair’s fair, and it’s all about who you know. Or whom. But let’s not quibble.

I am writing to apologize for looking like I was scowling or pouting throughout the whole ordeal. It may have seemed to you that I was ungrateful toward your efforts to minimize the threat of terrorism in our building. I was actually grimacing because I was thinking about those pussies who contend that privacy rights appear anywhere within the rigid, lifeless parameters of the Constitution. I bet you guys think the same thing on one of the 20 smoke breaks you take every day.

God Bless You and God Bless America, Z

Dear PECO Energy:

Thanks for your help yesterday in my hour of need. You see, I had a power outage yesterday, and I thought it might have been a black out. Were it not for your disconnecting me from your telephone line 5 times, I might not have had the courage to threaten to come to your headquarters and kill the woman who was in charge of connecting me to Emergency Services. I can have such a temper, my bad! In that case, I would have never found out that it was a problem specific to my building and I never would have called maintenance to fix the problem. And then I wouldn’t have had power all night long! My beauty sleep would be disrupted. And so on and so forth.

You see where this is going, right? You helped me come out of my shell. I am empowered, and I haven’t felt this way since watching a Mary Tyler Moore Show marathon on TV Land. (You go, Mary!)

Talk to you very soon, Z

Dear Girl in my Monday Night Gym Class (Front Row, Right):

Stop yelling back everything the instructor says in class. It’s not cute and it’s not motivational. It’s annoying. We are there to focus every once of our attention on the hot instructor, and your yelping takes away from that.

Ok, maybe some people are there for a good work out, but still…shut up!

Nice sneakers though, Z

Dear 7 Foot Tall Transvestite, Possibly Transexual, Hooker Standing at the Corner of 12th and Spruce Last Night:

No.

Keep on keepin’ on, Z

Sometimes Just Looking Sad Will Get You Free Beer

2005-07-11T09:11:00.000-05:00

Monday arrived not with a bang, but with a whimper. I woke up having to pee so badly at 6:00 and couldn’t fall back asleep after I threw myself into bed for the second time. I grabbed for my remote control and tried to turn on Sports Center, but the tv wouldn’t turn on. In fact, nothing would turn on because there was a power outage. I lay in bed for a while and strained my eyes, trying to read a magazine in half darkness. I was unable to achieve slumber, but I was still exhausted; the kind of tired that makes your legs sore and makes even deep breaths feel like they’re just not enough. I rose to get ready, and any attempts at hygiene were literally a stab in the dark. I forsook shaving altogether because one scar on my face (above the left eyebrow) is plenty, thanks.

I grabbed a water bottle, an apple and my work bag and headed to Rittenhouse Square to read while the morning rush flew by. I am so rarely up this early, I decided to observe how the more ambitious people start their day. Polo shirts and skirts of every color paraded by me. Once in a while a poor soul would trudge by in a dark suit; these were people whose rigid dress codes or inflexible, personal constitutions did not allow for such summer luxuries. Most people carried Ipods clandestinely in their pockets, their listening given away by the telling wires that hung from their ears. It made me feel bad about my archaic discman that sat compliantly on my lap. And then I felt guilty for feeling bad.

Some hippie-type old man with long gray stringy hair and a too-small pair of purple Umbro’s brought his flute to the park and played. After a horrendous tune up, in which he botched the half steps of each scale (he couldn’t play major or minor well), he serenaded the park with “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s Off to Work We Go.” It was hardly “Morning” by Grieg. It’s a very happy song for such bleak subject matter, and the scornful look of the passersby implicitly said more than any complaint could have.

Some of the benches were beds for the homeless. Most were covered in white sheets that someone must have handed out. The sheets were not quite long enough to keep their dirty socks and baseball cap rims from peering out of each end. Taking the longview of the park, it looked like a makeshift morgue was set up in a garden. It was kind of beautiful in a morbid, sad kind of way. The inner plaza of the park was almost completely shrouded in the shade from the trees. (Someone once told me if you see the park from above, it looks like a little forest in the middle of the city; you wouldn’t even know there were sidewalks or fountains.) The one spot where the hot sun beat down was occupied by 10 girls, each in a different color shirt (What are the odds?) taking turns playing Double Dutch.

KC nearly walked past me before I yelled for her attention. I forgot it was the first time I had seen her since she left for Scotland or I would have hugged her. She was surprised to see me and asked if I were wearing that to work, unaware that I could dress down and take casualness to new levels only dreamed of by slackers everywhere. She assured me, though, that it didn’t look like I got ready in the dark. Even though I did.

I sat and devoured Amsterdam by Ian McEwan, since I finished The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. It was a good book (no Middlesex), but it was odd to read such light prose about suicide. It was the first time in a while that I allowed myself to think seriously and introspectively about suicide. It made me think specifcally of how after someone very close to me once tried unsuccessfully to commit suicide, I was in charge of removing all the items from the house that could have been used to successfully complete the job. I walked through the person’s house with a box, filling it with medicines, knives, scissors and anything that could have been creatively implemented to act as death-bringing paraphernalia. It was like a shopping spree for pills and sharp objects. I had to actually think to myself, “How would I try to kill myself?” After collecting all I could, I brought the box to my bedroom and secured it under my bed, where I would sleep every night reminded that I had a death kit beneath me. I can still point to the exact spot in my shower where I stared for about an hour after I finished securing the home. When things were better, I was able to place all the items back where they belonged in that house, so this person could again open envelopes without getting a paper cut or relieve a headache by taking 2 Advil instead of 200. It’s interesting to note that unsuccessful suicide attempts can either compound a person’s feeling of ineptitude and failure in life (You couldn’t even succeed at that?) or signal a relief. The fact that this particular suicide attempt’s failure invoked feelings of relief in this person leads me to believe uncharacteristically optimistically that this person never wholeheartedly wanted to succeed at dying in the first place.

Um, anyway, on a lighter note, before I went shopping all day at Franklin Mills with CC and JB, we passed the Wyndham where there was some sort of freak Anime convention where everyone surrounding the building was wearing a bushy tail and ears. We asked the garage attendant what the deal was. Before answering us, she looked over her shoulder as if people were hunting her for her secrets and whispered, “They’re all over the place. These people wear ears and tails all the time. They, like, never take them off. They come from everywhere…Delaware, California, Michigan. They, like, drive for hours and I think they actually think they’re animals!” She was obviously disturbed, and with good reason. I was intrigued, but not enough to follow up on this lifestyle. I would appreciate it if anyone could let me know more about it.

As for Franklin Mills, why is everyone in Northeast Philadelphia pregnant? Stop!

Finally, last night I went to pick up some health food (steak and cheese stromboli) at a local pizza place, and while I waited for them to give me my food after two botched attempts (one was dropped, its replacement was made with onions and peppers- unacceptable), I talked on the phone with AM. I was telling her I had something stuck in my eye and it was driving me crazy. I react to eye problems how Nancy Kerrigan reacted to the lead pipe to the shin, it’s not pretty. I went into the bathroom to rinse out my eye and realized after the rinse that there were no paper towels or toilet paper (this is not a classy joint, natch). I emerged from the bathroom with a wet face and puffy eyes, looking like I had just been sobbing. The managers of the place thought I was so upset about something that they offered me a free beer. So I took it. It was kind of embarrassing; they must have thought I was crazy, but hey, free beer!

Happy Monday.