No Sleeves

This is funny, because I was thinking about this the other day while eating yet another terrible burrito:

Apparently I live in the Haight, which is news to me since I haven’t seen any annoying teenagers from New Jersey playing hackey sack or juggling with those stupid fucking sticks. And SOMA is so NOT TriBeCa.

But overall, a pretty good effort. And I’m always in favor of anything that totally gives the shaft to Oakland, where I spent over a year looking for the “there” and never found it.

(via Kottke)

Oh no. No no no no no. This is NOT how this shit works, right?

This is the sort of sight that rains guilt and shame upon one’s head, that brings into focus the insignificant accomplishments of a limited time thus far on earth.

This is enough to bring a man to question the very fabric of his being. So let’s examine mine:

I’ve refused to let old ladies take my seat on the subway. I’ve lied about donating money to charity. I’ve stomped on 50 different species of insects. I’ve shoved little kids out of the way for a $3 t-shirt. I’ve used women for sex. I’ve forgotten my mother’s birthday. I’ve broken my ex-girlfriend’s heart 2 different times. I leave my messes [physical and otherwise] for others to clean up. I’ve ignored people reaching out to me for career advice. I never give money to homeless people who ask for it. I’ve regularly shunned and shirked responsibility whenever possible.

Now let’s examine Jared “Former Fatass” Fogel:

He willed himself into losing several hundred pounds. He has starred in several commercials and written a book. He is a role model for obese people across the country. He is the very definition of a self-made success in contemporary America. He is also sitting next to an obscenely attractive woman he will likely have sex with later that night. He has an enormous, shit-eating grin on his face.

None of my sins match up next to that grin, I tell you. I’ll proceed as usual.

Re: getting that monkey off the back? Big Daddy Drew is making with the funny on KSK.

Hi! I’m Peyton Manning, And You Can Go F–k Yourself

A friend of mine suggested taking in a Variety Shac show over in Williamsburg last Thursday, and since I happen to be fond of a) comedy and b) attractive women and especially c) all of the above, I hauled my ass aboard the L and made the long, treacherous, one-stop ride to Bedford Ave.

The plan was to see the show, fill ourselves with mirth, pour down a couple pints, and make my way back to the East Village.

The plan was NOT to get drunk, butcher “Summertime” in front of 20 people, and get to second base with a slightly nutty-but-in-the-good-way geekette at her friend’s apartment in Bed-Stuy. Following the plan is so 2006.

Now, after a 40-minute phone call (!) on Monday and an hour on IM (!!), we’ll be going out again this week, but after an unintentionally risque comment by me, followed by a “no, i was kidding” and eventually the “maybe not [wink] “, now she’s probably going to end up spending Wednesday night at my apartment. No couch this time.

This is significant because I’m actually fond of this girl, and can actually tolerate her presence, which is all too rare. My brain’s top warriors (Gen. Prudence, Gen. Libido) are slugging it out in an epic battle, because this is new territory for the invading army.

I’m used to the slow date progression/lurch: swerve around the land mines, sleep together, get itchy, decide to end it after a month or two. Or, drop the A-bomb and take care of everything in one night (much less frequent).

Like myself, this girl’s damaged enough that ordinary rules of engagement don’t apply.
In other words, I’m probably shooting Prudence in the ass with a tranq dart when he’s not looking.

My advice is to bet the farm on Libido. He’s a crafty bastard.

So I saw someone is a-hoppin’ on the “alkeehall is bad, but not THAT bad” train. that Now, having subjected myself to a month of self-imposed draught last year, my tiny, tiny sense of moral superiority is forcing me to comment. (It’s tiny, but it has a very loud, annoying voice).

There’s a litany of reasons to stay off the sauce (money, weight, chemical dependence, health); I think I threw all of them in there when I was explaining why I was sipping a Diet Coke when everyone else was downing shots of Jager. The dirty secret of the sober month, which sounds so great in theory, is this:

It SUCKS.

It sucks because you feel slightly left out when you’re at a bar with friends.
It sucks because you catch strange looks from people you’re just meeting, like you’re a leper or something.
It sucks because people GIVE you those looks and you feel compelled to justify your abstention for no real reason.
It sucks because going out with your buddies becomes extremely depressing.
It sucks because getting laid, sadly, gets more difficult.
It sucks because beer is good.
It sucks because whatever weight you lose will be back by the next month, no sweat.
And finally, it sucks because you realize the extent of your dependence on alcohol…and that while you may not be an alcoholic, it still ends up leading you around by the nose far too often.

Then, like a ray of sunlight through the clouds, the month’s over, and it’s time to grab a pint and see how long it’ll take to forget the torture you just inflicted upon yourself. Yay for booze!

“According to a recent study from Scotland, HALF of all women make their minds up within 30 seconds of meeting a man about whether he is potential boyfriend material, according to a study on speed-dating.”

Great. I would have guessed about 10 seconds, so it’s nice to know there’s a little extra time to play with. Plenty of time to convince them they’re actually not too good for you.

Are Girls Quicker than Boys?

This is eugene and pamela from gogol bordello, the world’s finest gypsy punk band. Okay, okay, possibly the world’s finest BAND, period. Their shows are an explosion of pent-up energy, devastating guitar riffs, accordion blasts, feral intensity, and mustaches, and if you haven’t been to one then you are obviously not a person who enjoys, um, FUN.

Anyway, after the show: I KISSED PAMELA. [on the cheek]. Then she asked my name, which I gladly provided to her, and I threw in, unprovoked, that she was awesome. Because she plays a huge bass drum and then stands on it and dances like an insane Kazakh prostitute. And because I am a master of words when it comes to seducing attractive women who play in punk bands. I was lucky she didn’t jump me right in the middle the crowd of hipsters.

Sure capped off a great night and a phenomenal show at the SPIN end of the year party. Plus, I saw one of the dudes from TV on the Radio. And you can’t beat giving the head nod to some dude whose name you don’t know and will probably never remember, even if “Wolf Like Me” is possibly the best song of the year. Thanks Stacy!

to take all the fun out of moral and intellectual superiority.

Thanks for forcing us to be CREATIVE and exercise our axons to come up with something vastly superior to, for example, “I’m looking at you, [example of complaint].” My head already hurts.

Damn you, clever Gawker editor. You haven’t heard the last of the blogosphere’s hackery–it takes a nation of millions of underpaid snark jockeys to hold us back.

[eye-roll]*

*they forgot the trusty [eye-roll]! we still have the power! ALL IS WELL!

As great as it is not having an office and doing research in your underwear, the big downside right now to being a part of a tiny startup is the conspicuous lack of an office holiday party.

I feel as if my god-given right to quaff free drinks, crappy food and sniff around women way, WAY too hot for me has been unfairly ripped away–and it hurts all the way from the top of my head to the bottom of my penis, believe me.

So i’ve been debating recreating the experience by myself, in my “office.” Herewith, the plan for my Insert Generic Holiday Theme Here Party:

1. Buy copious amounts of liquor.
2. Drink copious amounts of liquor in ridiculously short amount of time while making jokes about imaginary asshole from marketing and his dust mite-sized genitals.
3. Force smile and make loud chit chat with said imaginary asshole, complete with emphatic hand gestures.
4. Drunk dial secret crush whom you’ve been in love with all year.
5. After being rejected by secret crush, announce to “office” that “all women are ho bitch slut cunt bags” and immediately do shots.
6. Vomit.
7. Drag self into cab, tell driver to take you around block. Ignore his confused stare and throw $20 at him.
8. Vomit.
9. Rub one out to the image of your new hate fuck. (See No. 5)
10. Pass out in bed.
11. Have awkward conversation with self in morning. “What did I do last night”?
12. Harass boss during conference call about getting actual office with actual people.