Hiding. 12.27.02

I have been in a silo. On a desert island. Stuck in the muck. Deep in my basement. Rolling with the homies. Okay, I have been sleeping and playing video games and sitting on my ass. And I am going to do it some more. Once I feel a little better. Hopefully there will be more entries before the New Year's bonanza. Unitl then, chew on this cake:

From the EURweb:

SNOOP BOWL GOES WELL Doggy done did it now.

We just know they were having themselves a good ol' fashioned time down at the inaugural Snoop Bowl last week. MTV reports WC shouted from the sidelines: "The police is gettin' their ass whooped. Finally, y'all on the other end of the stick."

Snoop Dogg, who has certainly clashed with authorities a few times over the years, settled the score last Thursday at Long Beach City College's Veteran Stadium, where his All-Stars beat the Inland Empire Police Department Enforcers 33 to 21. And the D-O-Double-G left the game a hero, not only for organizing the event, but for scoring six of the Snoop Dogg All-Stars' points and entertaining players on both teams with his touchdown dance.

"It was a tight dance, I'll give him that," said Levi Baker, a lineman for the Enforcers. After catching a slant in the center of the end zone, Snoop got down on his knees, put his hands behind his head as his teammates "frisked" him and then motioned as though he were being handcuffed.

"It's all out of love," said WC, the self-proclaimed Ghetto Heisman winner who performed at halftime. "All the funds are going to charity, and I'm loving it. Everybody's supporting the community. A lot of kids are out here. It's great."

HIP-HOP RESOLUTION PASSED

November is official Hip-Hop month for NY State. According to reports out of allhiphop.com, the New York State Senate recently passed the Hip-Hop History Month resolution, proclaiming November the official month to celebrate Hip-Hop history in the state of New York. The bill was sponsored by State Senator Pedro Espada, Jr. and had Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa as a powerful backer. It was passed by both the Democrats and Republicans.

Fringists vs Populists 12.27.02

I never knew that Robbin Crosby died of AIDS, around the same time that Dee Dee Ramone died of smack. As a slightly abashed Ratt fan, that is of some interest. Read about the different coverage of their deaths, from the NY Times Magazine article.

The Fabulous Mobile Experiment 12.17.02

Crushed to the side of a two-seater Jamaica Bus careening over asphalt bridges and apartment complex-neighborhoods on my way home. It's 5.00 pm and the bus is packed. I have not slept much, my hip hurts, and I am tired of looking at statistical output. The woman next to me has a sizeable bag bouncing off of my knee. Some child is talking incessantly in a language somewhere between human and Teletubby.

And I hear it. The cell phone is equipped to ring in a tune that I would say is Gilligan's Island, but I know what the owner is going after.

The Big Tymers' "Hood Rich." Which sums it up; he begins to talk in top volume about somebody getting "the papers," all while looking up from under his low-slung winter hat at the people staring at him. Ignoring the fact that we don't need to hear someone else's conversation. But when you're hood rich, you don't need courtesy.

Showed You Stars You Never Could See 12.17.02

Me, my big ass pimple, and my overweening vanity stepped out last night, courtesy of the pimpin’ styles of Arroz the Rice-A-Homie. I walked out of a statistics test with my head in the air and some funk on my feet. Checked my shirt to see that it was properly out of my pants, my cuffs undone, my eyes almost covered by the floppy grey hat. Shoes mad shiny. The weight of statistics translated into a trickling sarcasm.

Hell yeah. I was straight. Time for the yearly 40 Acres premiere party.

This one was for the movie “25th Hour,” starring Ed Norton. And if it wasn’t for that blamed Stats test I would have been up in that piece watching the movie too. Now, the thing is, I don’t consider myself a fame whore. I don’t usually go around drooling and fawning because someone is on television or on the silver screen. There are a few people who come off as the cutest, though, and some of them were striding out of the Ziegfeld Theatre at 10.30 pm last night. I watched them come out as I applied vaseline to my lips and held my coat tight to my chest.

Al Roker isn’t the cutest but that’s funny as hell. The woman who plays Lila on the TV show “Angel” was all over the premiere and the party. Dave Chapelle, Lisa Ling (yumm…), Ed, Selma Hayek, Rosario Dawson (again, yumm...), Philip Seymour Hoffman, Annabella Skinny-orria, Tony Siragusa and two of his chins.

Et cetera. Looking back on those cheap thrills, I was much more elated by the food/ likker/ bad music that covered the museum in Chelsea where this event was held. So much freestyle, so out of time. But I let the l’il freak out the box a bit, thanks to Kiri and Imana and Brandon and John and Tara and of course, the Rice-A-Homie and the Flower Girl. The floor was slippery and the slide steps were working; the knees and hamstrings held up; it was on like Donkey Kong.

We rode back to Bklyn in a cab, rehashing the movie and the night, with a lot of love in the cab. Even the driver was a good guy, chillin', chatting with us, almost pulling the Flower Girl along before she stepped inside.... It was funny at the time.

It’s too bad I got to be up in this computer lab working on statistical output very, very, very slowly.

Wit's Beginning? 12.16.02

So, it is almost New Year's. High time for us to get our plans in order. Time to think about people we'd like to kiss at midnight. And other people we'd like to recline with in a "I did what/who on New Year's?" A time to end the night singing Hall & Oates or Squeeze or "Total Eclipse of the Heart" at top volume while human flotsam lie prone about our beer-soaked feet.

Holla!

This is also the time of year where (instead of studying for my statistics final) I am making pancakes and thinking of lists I could make, best of the year, top tens of the year, that sort of thing. Now, I know you people out there. Y'all are mad crafty, crazy witty, just itching to give some input. Am I right? Don't even contradict me to be funny. Please. I'll come right through that computer screen with my kilt + sandals + porn star bib and show you the business!

So look out for some lists in the next two weeks. If there is a list you'd like to see, email me at normanrose@hotmail.com.

The Knuckle and The Hammer 12.15.02

I suppose topics for today could involve the brutality of man. Religious responsibility and Boston’s ex-Cardinal Law. Or the ridiculousness of the transit strike.

I was going to step away from all three topics and scribble something inconsequential. Like something about that ridiculous yammer mouthed young lady from last night’s Schmarley gathering.

I should have been sleeping instead of listening to someone talk in a high pitch about:
* some British boy,
* the wonder of the bar Down the Hatch,
* some other things I was trying hard not to pollute my virgin ears with.
I should have been sleeping instead of listening to the new Ghostface album in Arroz’ whip late last night, before I realized I was real drunk and had slept three hours the night before.

I was glad for the ride home. It’s a long and rolling journey between there and here. Up and around Queens or down and around Brooklyn, through suburban lengths lined by lights. I slept in my home but I am still tired; but I was awake enough to see the counter press conferences by Bloomberg/ Pataki and then by Transit Workers‘ Union President Roger Toussaint.

I was impressed with this press conference for a couple of reasons. The blatant hypocrisy of having given the firemen a 15% raise and then offering other essential workers of the city, of a service more of us use and a service we use more often, nothing. Though fire protection is essential, so is transit.

Bloomberg/ Pataki gave us reasons to believe that the union is doing bad things, and it is illegal to use your employee leverage-- withholding your work product-- ask for concessions from your management. The duo told us that we are in this together.

According to Patakaerg, the MTA is working in “good faith” to present a reasonable offer with an understanding that there is a tight fiscal environment. Bloomberg told us that we’re just going to have to ride our bikes, and that maybe people will die (thanks for the throwaway comment, Mike! This is due to the traffic congestion. By the way.), all in that pleasantly nasal voice and through the gritted teeth.

Amazing. In contrast, I was seduced by TWU’s president. Toussaint, in the face of disparaging, dirty-underwear-in-face commentary from our Governor and our mayor, in the face of public loathing (we really cannot handle getting around the city without subways), stood tall. In a gentle Trinidadian accent, he delivered his speech. Measured tones. Confidence. One simple expression.

He calmly explained a few things that I had not even heard. Their concerns for safety issues. The fact that the MTA has not opened their books to either the union or the city comptroller. The prescription benefits the TWU workers lose when they retire. The mention that their workers are disciplined at higher rates than comparable organizations (other city units?) across the nation.

Again, it was not even the fact. It was the feeling. These come off like simple requests-- for honesty, for good faith, for some sense of equality. For a measure of decent benefits. A request for transparency. The good faith that the MTA speaks about was questioned-- knowing the contract would be up at the end of the year, why wait until after the elections to start with the offers?

The way Toussaint spoke, he won me over. It is not the evil man who is taking away our subways. Really, the evil men who are taking our subways might be our elected officials; might be their appointed leaders; might be the insistence on not stepping into the fray. Though they step in enough to mention with a wagging fatherly finger that strikes are illegal, children! So exactly what’s illegal or bad faith for the other side?

While we are, as Mayor Bloomberg warbles “go to sleep, preparing for the worst,” and as he sleeps and prepares to be filmed on his bicycle (Mayor, will you subsidize my new vehicle?) let’s hope there is no strike and if there is one… it is short and deals are made before we have our inter-city wrestle fest in cars, and on buses, on commuter vans, and on our new bikes… in the snow.

Northern Neighbors 12.13.02

I do believe our Toronto neighbors are getting a little too into this "Bush is a Moron" thing. They probably believe that if they yell about his stupidity long and loud enough Americans will listen. Like we listen to Canadians except when they're being dry and funny. Please. Even then we're not paying that much attention. Quick-- name me the capital of Toronto. Ha! It's a city, there is not a capital of a city, silly! Name the province Toronto is in. Too slow, it's Ontario.

Ah, Toronto, home of a huge Caribana festival, my dear uncle and aunt, and suspiciously clean streets... here is one more article from the Star. Thanks to "yallgonmakeme losemymind jones," on the defamation of the character of morons everywhere:

Nov. 26, 2002. 01:00 AM- Bush fails to meet moron criteria

THOMAS WALKOM

The debate over whether George W. Bush is a moron continues to sputter.
Morons are outraged at being lumped in with the U.S. president.
Americans,meanwhile, are mildly amused that it has taken Canadians so long
to discover the obvious.


The controversy exploded last week when Francoise Ducros, an adviser to
Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, was overheard at a NATO meeting in Prague
saying,"What a moron," apparently about Bush.


Morons say this is an outlandish slur. "We're nice people," explained one.

"We don't threaten other countries or use the courts to steal
elections.George W. Bush may be a dangerous lunatic. But he's no moron."


Chrétien seems to agree. "He's not a moron at all," the Prime Minister told
reporters on Thursday, referring to Bush.


Still, the opposition parties are not content. The Canadian Alliance argues
that if Bush discovers he is a moron, this could affect Canada-U.S.
relations.


Chrétien, however, says there is nothing to worry about. Bush, he said,
doesn't read Canadian newspapers. Or any newspapers, for that matter.


According to the International Dictionary of Medicine and Biology, most
morons are "educable and do not require institutionalization but need some
supervision in working at some simple job by which they can become
self-sustaining members of society."


Some have argued that this definition fits Bush to a tee. In most
matters,they note, he is carefully supervised by Vice President Dick Cheney,
Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld and Attorney General John Ashcroft.


Cheney and Rumsfeld run Bush's wars while Ashcroft stifles domestic
opposition. At home in the White House, first lady Laura Bush is chargedwith
watching over the president.


"Since the president's inauguration, he's only been left unsupervised
once--towatch a football game on television," recalled one expert. "And look
whathappened. He fell off the couch, choked on a pretzel and hurt his head."


While the Canadian media have gone gaga over the Bush-is-moron story,
Americans seem to have taken it in their stride. "Once again, Canadians have
discovered the obvious," editorialized the Wall Street Journal dismissively.
"Duh, Canada" riposted the New York Post.


In a lengthy analysis, the New York Times pointed out that Americans
havelong made a practice of electing dead people to the Senate and morons
tothe presidency.


"This kind of flexibility is what makes U.S. democracy so vital," the Times
went on. "Why should the Senate be denied the wisdom of those who have
passed on? Why should the presidency be the preserve of the mentally
capable?"

Upright 12.13.02

Yes, it's Friday the 13th. Why isn't there a new Jason movie?

For those of you who have emailed to ask how I am, my legs are mostly fine; I have done a lot of walking recently and I might almost be up to running and swimming which would make me happy and less tense.

From the Toronto Star on the Dubya 12.12.02

*thanks to the dark-haired jlf in chi-town*

Taken from the Toronto Star; written by Murray Whyte; title- "Bush anything but moronic, according to author"; maybe you can still see the Nov. 28 article.

Bush anything but moronic, according to author; Dark overtones in his malapropisms


MURRAY WHYTE

When Mark Crispin Miller first set out to write Dyslexicon: Observations on a National Disorder, about the ever-growing catalogue of President George W. Bush's verbal gaffes, he meant it for a laugh. But what he came to realize wasn't entirely amusing.

Since the 2000 presidential campaign, Miller has been compiling his own collection of Bush-isms, which have revealed, he says, a disquieting truth about what lurks behind the cock-eyed leer of the leader of the free world. He's not a moron at all — on that point, Miller and Prime Minister Jean Chrétien agree.

But according to Miller, he's no friend.

"I did initially intend it to be a funny book. But that was before I had a chance to read through all the transcripts," Miller, an American author and a professor of culture and communication at New York University, said recently in Toronto.

"Bush is not an imbecile. He's not a puppet. I think that Bush is a sociopathic personality. I think he's incapable of empathy. He has an inordinate sense of his own entitlement, and he's a very skilled manipulator. And in all the snickering about his alleged idiocy, this is what a lot of people miss."

Miller's judgment, that the president might suffer from a bona fide personality disorder, almost makes one long for the less menacing notion currently making the rounds: that the White House's current occupant is, in fact, simply an idiot.

If only. Miller's rendering of the president is bleaker than that. In studying Bush's various adventures in oration, he started to see a pattern emerging.

"He has no trouble speaking off the cuff when he's speaking punitively, when he's talking about violence, when he's talking about revenge.

"When he struts and thumps his chest, his syntax and grammar are fine," Miller said.

"It's only when he leaps into the wild blue yonder of compassion, or idealism, or altruism, that he makes these hilarious mistakes."

While Miller's book has been praised for its "eloquence" and "playful use of language," it has enraged Bush supporters.

Bush's ascent in the eyes of many Americans — his approval rating hovers at near 80 percent — was the direct result of tough talk following the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. In those speeches, Bush stumbled not at all; his language of retribution was clear.

It was a sharp contrast to the pre-9/11 George W. Bush. Even before the Supreme Court in 2001 had to intervene and rule on recounts in Florida after a contentious presidential election, a corps of journalists were salivating at the prospect: a bafflingly inarticulate man in a position of power not seen since vice-president Dan Quayle rode shotgun on George H.W. Bush's one term in office.

But equating Bush's malapropisms with Quayle's inability to spell "potato" is a dangerous assumption, Miller says.

At a public address in Nashville, Tenn., in September, Bush provided one of his most memorable stumbles. Trying to give strength to his case that Saddam Hussein had already deceived the West concerning his store of weapons, Bush was scripted to offer an old saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. What came out was the following:

"Fool me once, shame ... shame on ... you." Long, uncomfortable pause. "Fool me — can't get fooled again!"

Played for laughs everywhere, Miller saw a darkness underlying the gaffe.

"There's an episode of Happy Days, where The Fonz has to say, `I'm sorry' and can't do it. Same thing," Miller said.

"What's revealing about this is that Bush could not say, `Shame on me' to save his life. That's a completely alien idea to him. This is a guy who is absolutely proud of his own inflexibility and rectitude."

If what Miller says is true — and it would take more than just observations to prove it — then Bush has achieved an astounding goal.

By stumbling blithely along, he has been able to push his image as "just folks" — a normal guy who screws up just like the rest of us.

This, in fact, is a central cog in his image-making machine, Miller says: Portraying the wealthy scion of one of America's most powerful families as a regular, imperfect Joe.

But the depiction, Miller says, is also remarkable for what it hides — imperfect, yes, but also detached, wealthy and unable to identify with the "folks" he's been designed to appeal to.

An example, Miller says, surfaced early in his presidential tenure.

"I know how hard it is to put food on your family," Bush was quoted as saying.

"That wasn't because he's so stupid that he doesn't know how to say, `Put food on your family's table' — it's because he doesn't care about people who can't put food on the table," Miller says.

So, when Bush is envisioning "a foreign-handed foreign policy," or observes on some point that "it's not the way that America is all about," Miller contends it's because he can't keep his focus on things that mean nothing to him.

"When he tries to talk about what this country stands for, or about democracy, he can't do it," he said.

This, then, is why he's so closely watched by his handlers, Miller says — not because he'll say something stupid, but because he'll overindulge in the language of violence and punishment at which he excels.

"He's a very angry guy, a hostile guy. He's much like Nixon. So they're very, very careful to choreograph every move he makes. They don't want him anywhere near protestors, because he would lose his temper."

Miller, without question, is a man with a mission — and laughter isn't it.

"I call him the feel bad president, because he's all about punishment and death," he said. "It would be a grave mistake to just play him for laughs."

Night of the Crips Part 3- Excuse me Lady, I Saw You Beatboxing for Lou Rawls... 12.11.02

So, I am on my way to the hospital at this point. Tired, having swum and changed only to have my knee lock up, I am on the way to the NYU ER.

I am in a wheelchair. It is dark, and cold, and I would rather be home, watching Smallville and drooling over Allison Mack-- I mean, the storytelling. Pico is in some pain, but it is not so bad when I do not actually try to stretch my leg.

Inside the ER, it doesn't look too busy. I talk to the triage nurse, take my spot. Chill out. I have no book and no music but I find a copy of the NY Post. Kids come in after me. A couple more NYU students-- basketball ankle injury, a girl who doesn't look to well, and her dandy ass Stern boyfriend.

A woman rolls in with her well-dressed, gray-suit husband. She is wearing pajamas and a fur coat. Dragging two large shopping bags. Hair dishevelled. Eyes crazy, red, teary. She's loud from the moment she walks in. She sits near me.

She tells me some things-- such as "I'm the town drunk of Freehold, NJ." And "There's a court case against me there." And "this coat? I got it for free. But the people I got it from won't let me come into the office anymore; they say I use their phone too much and disrupt their blah blah blah, bastards." And, "I know Fabio. You know he's to WalMart what Joan Collins is to K-Mart." (I didn't know Joan Collins was ANYTHING to K-Mart.) And, "I think I am having an asthmatic attack. Also, I just turned diabetic. That's why I have this bag full of cookies and sweets (drool) do you want one?" And "do you want anything? My husband is going out to get blah blah blah."

[--I declined--]

She goes in before me. As do some more critical cases. That's fine. What is not fine is that I came in at a little before nine, and I was whisked in during a compelling Blind Date episode in the 12.00 hour. I hate it when things get in the way of Blind Date.

But I hope to get my leg working again. I realized I had an urge to lighten my liquid load. Now, I never realized how damned difficult this is when you can't use a leg. There was gripping, and stretching, and ambling and all that. I felt like such an invalid. It was so much work I did consider giving my pants a stain Tide couldn't remove. Only for a moment.

Back in my wheelchair, a doctor tries to move my leg. That was blindingly unpleasant. I cursed like the posessed. But not like the woman from Freehold. She had been shouting loud enough for us to hear outside of the ER. About the service and how important she is. And something something something. Security had been going in and out to calm her down; I came out of the bathroom and I swear to God she was on the floor, talking on the phone and coloring in a book.

Theyprep me to go up for an X-ray-- offering me Tylenol + Codeine and a Percoset for my pain. I jump at this. Kids in high school would love this stuff in their cereal!

But it doesn't do a thing for my pain. I am disappointed. Maybe if I took three of each I'd be flying something fierce. I go upstairs. The X-ray is taken from one position because I can't open my leg. That's a worry. It's better than the next doc who is really into trying to get these muscles moving. He determines that it is a muscle problem, nothing ripped. And my hamstrings are basically pulled taut (which I can feel). But that does not mean I can move them by force of will. Pain.

Downstairs, another doctor is like, you were going to discharge him? And moves me to a bed, where the nicest man-nurse from Britain and I strike up a conversation. While he pastes heart-monitoring squares on my chest, sticks an IV in my arm, watches me grimace in pain as I try to find a position that does not put pressure on my leg. Good times! the doctor returns, works on my leg a little. Decides to hit me with the morphine drip and some jacked-up muscle relaxer. So I will be sedated "but awake," he tells me.

Three hours later, my leg could move, mostly. They worked on stretching the hammy and loosening the muscles and I was ASLEEP the whole time. A little trippy.

I was ready to go. So I left a few hours later, after realizing that walking was not going to work; that I really had no comfort with crutches; that I was freaked out since I had never been injured before; that my leg actually hurt; but I had a prescription for muscle relaxers and some high-grade pain relief.

As an afterword, once I got the prescription filled, I said "this muscle relaxer doesn't makle me sleepy like the warning say-zzzxzxzxxxx" then it was three hours later. I fell asleep on couches, I fell asleep eating, I fell asleep trying to stretch. I pulled a Cory! I slept for like two days.

12.10.02 Things to Do While Your Subways Are Striking...

Floss.
Catalogue your CD's.
Wonder what's going on in the world around you.
Smoke reefer.

A transit strike? That's ridiculous. The funny thing is that it's ridiculous to have a transit strike, but before that, it's ridiculous to offer transit workers a chance to pay more towards their pensions... reducing their take-home pay? It's one thing to tell people there are no raises (though there is that "cost-of-living" thing) available-- it comes to be expected, after all, that you are asked to wait for a little for a raise (that never actually comes). But it's another thing to essentially ask for a give back. Why not just ask them to work gratis through the Christmas season? You know, for the kids? Then extend the Christmas season until about next Christmas? That's a good idea too!

We're adaptable here in New York. We'll be fine. Right, Arroz? Those inter-Brooklyn trips will be a real blast!! I mean, imagine-- sans a car, we can all get our exercise, something our president and our Surgeon General would certainly approve of. And then, if it's a little far, and we're not near the Long island Rail Road (like I am-- how's that feel, y'all suckers!! I'll be lucky to get intimate with people from Babylon instead of people from Forest Hills!), we can follow mayor Mike's suggestion and ride our bikes!

I, personally, was a little perturbed about this suggestion. I defend Mayor Mike sometimes to my brother who I think would like to see him "removed," but this-- who says that? It sounded like "let 'em eat cake" 200 years after the fact. But, then I thought about it-- and even though I did hurt my knee, and I am working up to regular physical activity, like walking distances, biking is not so bad. If I don't have my knee lock up, or my hamstrings get all funky on me, I can get some good exercise, arrive at school good and sweaty, and experience riding in NYC traffic! I've ridden in Chicago traffic, and St. Louis traffic, so I must be ready for this one!

And Mayor Mike must have thought about that suggestion a lot. He says he'll ride his bike too! Really! It'll be great. We'll ride together in our heavy black coats. People will hit ice slicks and slip in fits of asphalt comedy. People will stop and wheeze in turns of gotham drama. Have you ever run or rode your bike in sub-freezing weather? Or sub 20 degree weather? We'll be a cool tough-guy gang!

Do we get tax credits for lost wages?

Do we get reimbursed for those exorbitant LIRR fees? $5.75 during rush hour, Mayor Mike. Maybe if I had the money, I'd take the LIRR on the regular.

Now, if we pick up a Mets Motel (I'm sorry, they changed their name-- the Metro Motel) prostitute to fulfill our 4-person in the car quota, will the rules on solicitation be eased? I mean, say, I pick up a consenting adult (or a consenting near-adult-- it happens sometimes! I swear, officer, I couldn't tell through the pigtails) and I take her to Manhattan, and we just happen to [--HAY-HAY-HAY!--] in the backseat of a car, like adults sometimes do. But I also pay her for going out of her way and assisting me in fulfilling car pool requirements. That's not illegal, is it?

What The? 12.6.02

How the hell did the Mets get Tom Glavine to sign?!

After the Leg Is Gone 12.6.02

My manegement project has fallen by the wayside. I mean, like, it's done. Decent. We could have been better. But at least I didn't drop my pants as an ice breaker.

Let's go back to the night of the crips. Last time, we had this:

I was working with my management group. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter.

I had been sitting in one position for a while; i should have been moving my legs. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. Swimming hard. Feeling the benefits.

Then the library closed where I was typing.

for a soundtrack use these interim tunes:

Danny Elfman's Evil Theme from Nightmare Before Christmas
The Isley Brothers' Hurry Up And Wait
50 Cent's Wangsta
Earth, Wind, And Fire's After the Love is Gone
Riyuichi Sakamoto's Grief (Amon Tobin rmx)
Nine Inch Nails' Down In It
Neil Young's Theme from Dead Man
N.O.R.E's Nothin'

Back to the crips. I'm up in the Tisch building with my non-man-titties and all, and we end our meeting. I start to walk upstairs but my left knee is still balking at me like "Na-na-na-naaaah!," since I let my knee listen to that f---ing genius N.O.R.E. But my knee wasn't pissy drunk like that. "If you can't understand it, write that shit down... and FIGURE IT OUT WHEN YOU GET HOME!!" -Redman

I reach the pool with a gangsta lean and it's all gravy, I stretch that twinge till it backs up off of me, take my shower, and I'm in the pool, swimming hard. I did a lot more laps than usual, and I went pretty hard. I felt very good, like all the training was helping, like the four days I took off of swimming helped too. I stretched once or twice in the pool (legs up to the bar underneath the starting blocks, reach-- yeah, I'm flexible. Yeah, I learned it at the club, wise-ass.) in between sets. Came out.

Went to shower. I decided then that I would have to include this bit in a blog (having no idea what the rest of the night had in store for me). I was reminded of my blog on the 15th where I made mention of the best term for the male genetalia-- junk. I was in a junkyard. Five men had come out of the sauna and it is customary for those men to shower. Nekkid. I won't say whether I felt shamed or elated or anything like that-- but it's a little worrisome showering in a corner while five other men shower too. Very "don't drop the soa-oh-oh." A lot of hair on these fellas too. Yeah, I said it. Just to demistify things.

Worst of all, they were taking cold showers. So I could feel it when the guy who came next to me turned his on. It was cold just being nearby. So I took a hotter shower.

In situations where a man is surrounded, in a junkyard, a man prefers not to hear socializing and talking. That just makes it seem like it's less wierd. But they're all chatting like it's totally chill. For me, it has nothing to do with a fear of man-spears. I just don't find myself in such situations all the time. I need to be more open-minded, right? As long as I'm not open-assed it's all good.

I shudder to think about the junkyard. Back at my locker, securing my very own junk in my pants, then moving on to the shirt, some baby oil to keep my skin moist, and moving on to the shoes--

Something happened on the way to the shoes. Mind you, I was supposed to meet Arroz for some chillin and drinking, and then down to see friend Ruby spin her things. Her things being CD's. Fucking perverts. But I wasn't thinking about that anymore because my eyes were blazed up with pain. My leg went into a locked position like it was trying to find its way back into a womb i never had.

It

would

not

move.

I tried. But the pain was unbelievable when I tried to move it. I used my hands to massage and groove it. I took my eyes and looked down at my shoes 'em. Couldn't figure out the pain it was more than a bruise 'em.

There was a fellow who had put himself in crash position to my right. He had an ice pack over a face obviously in pain. He had crossed my path once in the locker room, staring at his face in the mirror as if to figure out who he was. He turned to me, hesitantly. Do you need me to get some... help?

Uhm... I think you'd better. Thank-- acch-- you.

Minutes later a member of the Coles sports center staff was down there, gauging the extent of my injury. My leg wasn't moving. He thought I might have torn something. I thought I might have lost it right there and screamed but I was working to stay awake against the pain of trying to move the leg at all, put on my shoes, figure out what the fuck was happening to me.

I was told my options and chose to go to the NYU emergeny room, because, you know, my leg didn't work. And I needed it for stuff like walking and chasing rainbows. While I was waiting I spoke to the guy with ice over his face. He had broken his nose playing basketball, of course. He was trying to determine if his nose had changed orientation. It had. I told I hoped they didn't have to re-break his nose as he feared a doctor would.

But there I was, being helped into a wheelchair, and I still had my cellie so I called Arroz (I ain't coming. Situations is all fucked up, yo. Nah, you don't got to come guns blazin' into the drop, dear friend, don't get it twisted) and my brother, Brother-man (Tell moms I won't be home tonight. Nah, I ain't get nobody pregnant nor did I gaffle no punks and get hauled off to cell block A). And I waited. And waited. I admit, I was watching some of the pick up games and admiring the women coming from the aerobics class. I might have been in pain but I wasn't in THAT much pain.

Finally, a member of the transportation staff came with a van and we worked my ass into that van. The driver was a Jamaican man and he talked about his longtime practicing of martial arts; and how he has had knees locked up.

"You think I tore something?"
"Don't even say that. I had my knee lock up on me once. It was just a muscle strain."
"How long -ow- does it take to straighten out?"
"Depends."
"Depends? How long?"
"Depends."
"Like a rough estimate."
"Took me three days once."

I was like, nah, they had best be giving me some muscle relaxers, high grade painkillers, and a bag of Humboldt County's finest all rolled up for use, cause I ain't with that pain, kid.

We approached the hospital in minutes and soon... I would experience the Emergency Room as if it were for the very first time. Okay, I AM an ER virgin. Tune in-- later, or tomorrow, depending on this blasted homework.

Night of the Crips 12.5.02

Okay, back to the cripple night. Quicker than you'd like, I know, this has never happened to me before. When people say that, are they also including their experiences with the magazines and videos they buy in the brown paper bags? I wonder. Cause it's never happened to me before.

Neither had the night of the crips. But baby, but I'll do the best I can in describing it to you.

There is the most not-quite-cute couple in front of me. They are very bony-chinned and sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, I can evaluate that much. Sorry, I had to point that out, because for God's sake, I think they're technically necking. Their necks are twisting together. This is straight wierd.

But I'll rewind this trick capsule about two weeks or so to my Tuesday. November 19th. I was working with my management group, we were haggling about this or that. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter. It was all like, youse a bitch, n***a. Now, I dont' tolerate that kind of backtalk from my joints and muscles so i was like, don't make me come back there and whup up on ya.

I had been sitting in one position for a while and I thought, oh, I should have been moving my legs or something. Whatever. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. swimming hard. Feeling the benefits. For anyone who has seen me topless (yeah. At the club, wise ass.) I was getting "muscle" and "increased definition." The cool thing about swimming is that it doesn't give you man-titties.

What the rass? The liberry closing? Summabitch. I'll take you back to the crips in a couple of hours. Wish me and my legs luck in the slipping snow.

What University is About... 12.5.02

This is the way it should be. Walking to class in a falling down snowstorm. Slipping in the snow, looking at kids just waiting for enough snow for an impromptu snowfight before class. NYU kids, y'all must have had it lovely in January of '94 and Jan of '96. I am sure there are other snowfalls (there was an April one I'd heard about) but those are the two I experience.

In 1994, in high school. After about ten days of ice storms and n'or'easters, with the trees dangling icicles, shimmering in the light; with students and teachers alternately staying home, meaning a month of not-quite-class; after telling my mother that I have the agility of a panther, and that I never never slip,

there I go falling on my ass and sliding most of the way down the driveway and almost into the street. I made a good toboggan.

In 1996, the classic Skalars/ Bigger Thomas/ In-Steps/ Scofflaws show at the Wetlands also featured a foot of snow-- but the brave came out. And the brave, including my high school friends, leaped and jumped over snowdrifts and tossed snowballs at each other, since it took an hour to walk a few blocks.

The night of the crips is soon to return.

Night of the Crips 12.4.02

This covers the events of Tuesday, November 19th, 2002.

An important date, wherein our hero Pico struts his stuff at night, experiences high-grade pain, meets crazies in the ER, and emerges into the morning light.

I have been suggested not to force it. But I have to force it. This tale needs an enema. Or a banana and coffee and some McDonald's. Squeeze it, squeeze it...

Tomorrow-- night of the crips redux.

Pride and Pomp 12.4.02

While listening to Elvis' "In the Ghetto," courtesy of M. Silver, I noted that, since there are a couple of new readers, this is the best archive so far.

Jade 12.3.02

My lord, the most adorable curly-haired woman is sitting behind me in this computer lab. I mention that because this place is empty, the streets are lonely, the event line a/k/a the home phone ain’t ringing in repeat and echo.

We are in the hibernation period—the wintry time when you, and I, and our friends start thinking that it’s a great time to stay in and watch the latest J-Lo movie wherein she plays an Italian woman with a father from the old country. Or Scary Movie for the fourth time, because you just got digital cable (the wonders of living at home—thanks, papa!). Or questionably “cool” drug movies with Jared Leto and Selma Blair and John C McGinley with shoulderblade-length braids talking about weed in Sacramento. And I just found out they were going cross-country to attend a vigil for Kurt Cobain... hmm...

It is that cold outside. The conversion from cold weather night to heated bar, with the requisite dump-of-coat in a corner, with sweater atop, with hat and gloves and scarf adorning that mass, seems less appealing with every degree the windchill drops.

Meanwhile, I am worrying about a management project. One where I feel like I am not doing enough. In part, it’s because there isn’t anything to do. In part because, honestly, management innovation doesn’t stir my coffee cup on the regular. As a side bar, this does.

I stay up and worry about these things, about pulling my weight.

When I forget the important things—to think about the effects of Jim Thome on the NL East baseball hierarchy; to admire beautiful women in public, preferably with my tongue out cause chicks love that shit; to do some editing on my novel; to live more like a dirtball; to relax, because eventually, you’ve done everything you can do and you can’t press more and get a return out of it.

Maybe I don’t worry enough, hmm?

I promise sports talk and political talk, soon.

I'll leave you with a classic Robbie Williams quote, what a scamp that fellow is!! "the reason i'm doing you is 'cause your friend said no," from Forever Texas.

Stick To It 11.30.02

My fingers hurt. The 50,600 words are posted to the NaNoWriMo site (you can read what I have put up, more to come), which is not to say that the novel is anywhere near done. But I wanted to say hello again, and get acquainted with the Pico blog, this method of daily postings. My throat hurts. USC is kicking the living crap out of Notre Dame. I could have guessed that.

For last night, where eight people sat in the back of a bar filled with hip hop and cool people posing at one another, and undid the cool with fart talk and oral sex talk at top volume. For that, and for one specific conversation, I would like to post this-- "you can fuck my body baby. But don't fuck my mind," -the Afghan Whigs, "Neglekted."

Man, I have been writing some lunatic crap in this blog. I almost feel the need to apologize. I will apologize with poorly thunked out and manic slices of daily pie, translated into electronic wording. No more of this, the Nets are laying the smack down on the Blazers, and I need to call Pavel in Cali.

Coxswains at Night 11.17.02

Interesting. I seem to have run out of words, in a sense. I am thinking much of things like essay writing and my novel, but I have an inability to fill this blog with words.

I attribute this to a sudden realization that, since I do not see people-- grad-school people don't count, I don't know them so well, we're in the same sinking boat and I think they would be a little more skittish if I was the... ah... goofier part of myself. The more manic part.

Before going back to how I do not see people, I want to talk about the urge to talk shit, curse excessively, and lie to people for fun. These are generally considered antisocial traits-- I don't know why, they've made me acquaintances for many years!!!! But friday was the first day of presentations for my Managing Public Service organizations class. Two groups presented. Neither of them had me in it. So I was a mellow fellow, this Pico, so chill I should have been playing Coleco.

Other people were not. Take, for example, a little person with the last name "Tiger." I shit you not. What a hot last name to have. Think of that-- Pico Dulce Tiger. What a name that would be.

Anyway, ten minutes before class starts, I know I need some caffeine. I run into classmate Dara. I have the urge to call her "the sweetest thing." I think she thinks I am funny but mysemi-sarcasm probably pushes it. If there's one thing you learn from a management class, it's that it is a good thing to have allies. She'll count for now.

So we walk outside into the wind and it's a pretty day, the kind of day that gets Pico's blood flowing and his heart racing and his brain a-thinking mischief. Pico sees Ms. Tiger walking up, a little worried and hurried. Obviously, she is worried about class and is all the more confused when she sees two of her classmates (yours truly and Dara) walking in the opposite direction of class-- we were in search of coffee and a newspaper. And he thinks, such a young person should not wear the worries of the world on her face, for it is only class! I shall amuse her with misdirection and wit!

Lacking a top hat, handkerchief, doves, or gloves, I used my mouth and told her straight-faced that class was cancelled.

I think I saw her heart stop momentarily.

Oh, she laughed, but she was totally like hella super freaked y'all. O-mi-Gawd!

I thought perhaps it was just her; but Dara thought it was funny on the risque side and when I told the Noemi next to me, she whispered that I was mean. Sigh. What can ya do? This is the essence of my sense of comedy.

Cruelty.

I will sob myself to sleep and get back to work in the morning; from South Illadelph to my bedroom shelf, this is Pico signing off.

11.15.02

Best phrase for the male genetalia-- "junk." As in "I don't need to see your junk on the first date." Courtesy of Shipmates. I should go out in the daytime.

11.15.02

I am dedicated to swimming. But it makes me tired, so when I say "swimmin'" I think of the classic Puff Daddy tune All About the Benjamins. What's the line that leads up to 5 + 5, something milleniums?

Here we go:

Now... what y'all wanna do?
Wanna be ballers? Shot-callers?
Brawlers -- who be dippin in the Benz wit the spoilers
On the low from the Jake in the Taurus
Tryin to get my hands on some Grants like Horace
Yeah livin the raw deal, three course meals
Spaghetti, fettucini, and veal
But still, everything's real in the field
And what you can't have now, leave in your will
But don't knock me for tryin to bury
seven zeros, over in Rio Dijanery
Ain't nobody's hero, but I wanna be heard
on your Hot 9-7 everyday, that's my word
Swimmin in women wit they own condominiums
Five plus Fives, who drive Millineums
It's all about the Benjamins, what?

From RealLyrics. I need to stop swimming, too. but he said "Grants like Horace! Rio Dijanery!!" Bwah-hah-hah-ha!!

11.11.02

I seem to have become some kind of hipster wanna be. Like any good hipster, I am inspired to write my novel listening to the Strokes and Capone & Noreaga. I need some help.

From the Rice-A-Homie In Response - Have You Voted Yet? 11.05.02

Dinosaur hunters everywhere, unite!
This is Shoulder Logan, renowned Paleolithic Predator and Menace of the
Mesozoic. I am in search of a few intrepid travellers to join me on my next
foray into the ancient lands, little experience necessary, though it would
be helpful if you had some skill in the following fields:
* Gatling/Chain-gun operation
* Air-to-Ground missile targeting systems programming
* Beef Jerky cookery
* Panama Hat Millinery
* Carabiner forging
* A rope skills merit badge
* Excellent command of facial muscles such that a cool looking grimace of
resolve can be realized in the face of massive,
stampeding thunder lizards
* Most importantly, you need to be in good enough shape to make a loincloth
look as natty as your sunday best!
That's really all for now. You can contact me for further details with a
simple reply. Only those with true grit need apply.
Manfully,
Shoulder Logan
Dinosaur Slayer

Junk? 11.05.02 - Go Vote It's Election Day!!

Received in my inbox (thanks, hotmale!)

Hello,
If you are a Time Traveler I am going to need the following:

1. A modified mind warping Dimensional Warp Generator # 52 4350a series
wrist watch with memory adapter.

2. Reliable carbon based, or silicon based time transducing capacitor.

I need a reliable source!! Please only reply if you are reliable. Send a
(SEPARATE) email to me at:xxxxxx- not real address@aol.com

Fans of the Bungles!! 11.04.02

The football world spun all kinds of funny this week-- the Jets a/k/a the NY Jest whooped up on somebody. And the Cincinatti Bengals won! In fact, they done whooped up on somebody too!!!!

Read the above link, including this example of lowered expectations:

Special teams, B: There were no glaring errors, and JoJuan Armour blocked a field-goal attempt by Kris Brown - a first for the Bengals in three seasons. T.J. Houshmandzadeh had the team's longest punt return of the season, 11 yards, and actually ran up to fair-catch a punt instead of letting it roll.

and if you're bored, I have added 2000 words of novel for your reading pleasure.

No You Di'nt 11.04.02

The worst thing I heard this weekend. While not wearing my costume, and at a party with the big G, a fellow was trying to figure out what my costume was. After he joked about being an out of work basketball player (or something) he then decided that my costume was of John Lee Malvo.

Nice.

He repeated this one later. I told him that really wasn't what I was going for, nor was it funny.

Back to homework and writing.

Eyes Red, Shirt Orange 10.31.02

Keep this isht bookmarked, yo. This will be the site for my Nanowrimo novel, Walking After Midnight.

The incomparable Redman said "If your lame ass can't feel it then your cord's unplugged."

I welcome suggestions, impressions, commentary. Send it to your friends, they need something to read. I'll make it easy and use english words but not so easy you zone out on the likes. I promise it won't read like the crop of urban fiction spawned by Sex In the City crumb-snatching ho-bags. I promise to eulogize Jam Master Jay. I promise to kick it up a notch. Again, I promise you fisticuffs, big love, duplicity, psychoses, solitary characters, Ohio farmland, good sex, Now & Laters, talk shows, puffy coats and timberlands;

I promise you Chicago and Pittsburgh and the Brooklyn Bridge;

I have the audacity to not mention 9-11;

I will massage your toes.

I can also promise you that I will be celibate like the monks deep in the french Alps, concentrating only on that which will make my readers happy.

There will also be pine nuts.

Come on a magic carpet ride with me. Whattaya say? What? Say that isht to my face, yo.

Chillyville 10.28.02

I have a sniffle. One of those sniffle you wish wouldn't sneak up on you and smack you sneeze-producer hard on the back, thereby causing "sneeze," thereby causing, "aw, eww, that's my notebook." Yeah. I'm a blog whore and I'm telling you about my nasal troubles because I swear they have propelled me throughout my house this afternoon, as I tried to study for statistics. Like I'll learn anything.

As far as interesting stories go, this certainly is not one of them. But, the lunacy is coming. Four days. National Writing Month-- click on that link if you want to join in a 50,000 word lollapalooza.

A side note-- they've been putting something in Ms. Pixel's toasted ravioli. She's waxing poetic about the Lou again...

Take This Slug and Run. 10.26.02

Boy, howdy, I am tired. I'm Cory Roxas tired.

Don't know if I am up to party tonight, young Caroline, young E-Socs, young kash-Money, young Kelli-Rae.

Has anyone noticed that "Kournikova" sounds an awful lot like "rolling over?

The adventures of National Writing Month are coming in six days-- stay tuned!!!

I Wrote My Hit Single All By My Lonely 10.25.02

How is your hit single doing?

1. after my appearance on American Idol, quite well. but i still don't know what i'm singing.

2. ohmigod CarsonDalyissocuuute!

3. since it accurately reflects the gun clapping reality of hustling to make a buck, it's #1 on my hot 9-7.

4. it's been incorporated into breezy and hip car commercial.

5. yo, the shit's so underground, you can only get it on mix tapes sold in the subway. i'll be on the manhattan bound a-train at 7.30 am from euclid.

6. it annoys my parents, friends, children, baby mommas, and my two princes to the point that they no longer speak to me.

7. it flopped. like when i drink too much whisky...

8. dirrrty, like ms aguilera.

9. it got my girlfriend closer to bret michaels of poison and she's no longer my girlfriend.

10. excellent! on saskatchewan public radio.

11. the neptunes are in the lab with it as we speak.

Jared Lorenzen, 10.24.02

From the Atlanta Journal-Constitution:

Kentucky's 285-pound quarterback Jared Lorenzen leads the league in nicknames. Which one's best?

J-Lo

Battleship Lorenzen

The Hefty Lefty

The Pillsbury Throw Boy

The Round Mound of Touchdown

Now, the Mets Have Hired Art Howe…10.24.02

The NY Metropolitans, Apu's favorite squadron, have been chassing the base-tossing Lou Piniella up and down in the papers. And the Seattle Mariners, where he is currently a manager (but has asked out of his position to be on the east coast) have basically put up the prison style glsss wall between he and the Mets. No conjugal visits, Lou.

Now, Lou has an offer from the woeful Tampa Bay Devil Rays (sports fans, you want to read that link). Which he might accept. This is, by the way, indication that he is senile. I have no idea what compensation the Ray-Rays could have come up with, since they can't field a major league team... but Lou wants 'em, and the Mets have moved quickly to unofficially hire Art Howe.

Maybe Art Howe is too mild mannered. And why did the Oakland A’s let him go anyway? Will this be a disaster? Who’s to say. But I think a calming presence might be good in a Met clubhouse tired of Bobby Valentine’s self-promoting yammering next to Steve Phillips’ self-promoting yammering.

Maybe this team needs a kick in the ass, but they should be adult enough to play for themselves-- Mo Vaughn and Mike Piazza should be doing the talking--

But maybe only in my dream world….

I hope the best for Art, because he couldn’t do worse than last year’s Mets.

Besides, how important is this in a world where Kangol's web site is asking me the salient questions concerning our western democracy?

One-Two-Three 10.23.02

PREMIERE.

Props to Arroz the Rice-A-Homie, for I have now met Miss America. Not the married and buxom Mrs. America (hey mother… want another?), but the honest to God, Donald trump crowned Miss Illinois, Miss Erica Harold. Now, if you were watching as un diligently as I was, you will need this recap-- she ran for Miss America under a platform against bullying.

Which to me sounded, at first, like the platform against twice-warmed steak.

But she has a tale about being harassed by the corn-fed denizens if her mid-Illinois school, and how the administration did nothing to stop the racial and physical threats levied against her. This was some of the content of her opening speech at the roundtable breakfast/ discussion, designed to convince media people to add more realistic depictions of bullying in their work.

There was some discussion of solutions which often came in the form of asking where the teachers were, as if they hold the authority over the children. It’s been my opinion that children hold the authority over themselves. Of course, it’s best not to let them know that, because they will go crazy with it.

The power of having a heterogeneous school, filled with different communities of children, is the way to make kids feel comfortable, I started to think after listening to kid talk about how the “Fame” school has no tolerance for, well, intolerance. Much like my high school. In a sense. But both of our schools have many different niches for the kids, so no one feels really left out on a large level.

This event took place in the stylish offices of MTV, and there I was, a guest of the estimable Rice-A-Homie. It was kind of interesting. But in truth, I was not the one who got to shake her hand and take a picture with the crown over my head, as this other fellow did.

But that’s okay, really, because I met Newsday columnist Steve Jacobsen, and I done learned something.

DOS.

I walked across a busy midday midtown in a rush after this event, since I was already good and late. I’d called my friend Ellen to have her come down an receive a 5-inch gift in the plaza in front of her building.

What? It was a CD filled with the most ignorant current rap songs I could possibly find. Destined to make her laugh. Then she announced she was really going through with plans to leave the country for Mexico. This is what happens when you’re out of touch.

TREY

And on the subway home, I am trying to fall asleep. I close my eyes, curl into a ball, make sure no one has their legs or bags touching me. I tried reading. I tried counting lights through the window.

I couldn’t fall asleep. And I was really friggin’ tired from my short morning in the city. I had reading to do, a paper to write, more midterms to study for. So I simply watched the people; focusing on the squat fella in the bright white mesh Kangol for Safari time on the subway.

There was a girl with an art-sized portfolio bag falling asleep down the aisle. Across me on other red-orange-red F-train seats, was a woman who had just sat down on the train, visibly upset. Next to her soon sat an angelic Polynesian or possibly Hispanic beauty-- maybe a little young but well-dressed in powder blues and white from her fitting jeans to a sleeved shirt and a sweater over the shirt.

She was scribbling furiously; and from my distance I could see the writing was impossibly small, like a crib sheet for a test you have not studied for.

Nothing to notice, but the upset woman looks like the world is falling on her head. The angelic woman stands, hands the woman the paper, which looks as if it has another paper wrapped in it, and whispers something to her. I wonder why they had not acted as if they knew each other previously-- were they sisters?

The upset woman reads the note, and covers her mouth, then her face. She gasps. She starts talking to the woman sitting next to me. I think maybe they know each other also.

“Oh, my, God,” the upset woman says. “Oh my God.”

Being concerned straphangers, the Kangol and the woman next to me ask her what happened.

Apparently the upset woman had been released from some employ after an argument, an incident, and some racial slurs from her boss. Who then refused to pay her for the half-week of work she had done. The woman was upset because she really needed the money, obviously. But there was no recourse for her to go back and get the money, so she was simply upset.

Now, I don’t know where the angelic girl came from-- she didn’t look as if she could be possibly over 20-- but she wrote a note to this woman and enclosed some unspecified amount of money with the note “God Loves You.”

To which the upset woman responds, “There really is a God. Oh my God. God loves me. I’m going to cry-- I have to get off the train.”

And she walked off the train at either Van Wyck or Sutphin, looking to all the world as if she had enough joy for three or four people.

Knickercrockers 10.22.02

Here’s my question-- why can’t the Knicks ever find any of these guys? This is a list of tall people, recent draftees, late-blooming European players, youthful warriors that people find because they spend time looking for cost-effective players who can contribute in some facet of the game. These are the guys who make your team competitive, the guys that fans come to see.

We’ve got Shandon Anderson and Howard Eisley for 6 years. No talent ass-clowns. Shouldn’t NBA guards be able to either “shoot” or “slash?”

I want an explanation for that, not how a spoiled NBA man-child hurt his wrist. I mean, fucking yawn. This is a petty reaction to a player who, admittedly, has a hard time following anyone else’s instructions. The public knows it; the organizations know it; the players know it.

NBA players are not the most responsible people. You would, yes, like your franchise (such as it is) to not go out and break his wrist in whatever manner he did it in. But Spree’s going to be out a few weeks. Call him an idiot. Fine him a small amount. Welcome him back into the fold, because this is no morality play.

Fine guys for beating their wives, for being caught with the roach in their car, for embarrassing the organization in strip clubs by tipping poorly. Don’t stand up there, all tight-lipped and tell us that Spree can’t play because he’s been bad. He needs to sit in the corner with his dunce cap on until he learns to play right with the other kids.

Stop hanging your coat up wrong, Latrell. Latrell, stop walking out of line. Latrell, if you don’t come inside and stop chasing those birds, we’re going to fine you for all of your juice and milk and cheese sandwiches and sloppy joes for two weeks!

Harry Senate Loves the Hookers 10.21.02

Hey, Pixel, you know what I did? I cut stats class.

Leaving the 8 PM hour free.

So I could watch Boston Public…

Let’s discuss.

Monday Regrets 10.21.02

I hope to write something more deep and intriguing next time.

Saturday Recap 10*20*02

For me, it's easy to forget sometimes why this "interpersonal contact" is a little important. Easy to study a little, recline in my basement, watch unending episodes of dating shows and laugh at the foibles of the obnoxious.

Sometimes I come out. That’s what midterms often do. I was preparing for my Saturday midterm, and I thought to myself, I’m going to have to do something after this one. My head was already hurting, I had not slept enough, and I was not ready for that jelly, financial management would not be bootylicious.

Then again, was it really necessary to step out into the night air? When I could go home, sleep, read a book, maybe watch a movie?

But all of that reclusive action makes for more fun when Pico does go out. Because sometimes Pico remembers he was once good for a party, filled with inane conversation, flirty jokes, and a hip swivel that Elvis jacked from the immortal Pico Dulce.

I digress. I’d like to thank everyone I came across for an evening that was fun as hell. For no good reason. I discussed my burgeoning rap career, was reacquainted with a pair of very cool ladies I met last year, and much like Ice Cube, I didn’t even have to use my A-K. I stepped out to Gulshan’s to play (sir, you are going to get the goofiest mix you’ve ever received) and I must say, if you haven’t been to Gulshan’s parties after hours, then you haven’t been. See, other people start kicking people out and go to sleep around 4. Not this homie, aw naw. I think it’s cool that I left at 5.45 and got home quickly. By subway. I was home a little after 7, and after I slept past my bus stop.

Marla, you shoulda stayed. It was silly. I discovered things about potato chips I never wanted to know-- but I did feel looser when I got home.

Enough of this semi-cryptic babble. I close by also thanking Amanda, Stinky, Mike, Alex, Julia, Jenna, Ashrita, Alissa, Schnapp, Hayley, Cesar, Victor, the two guys from G’s building, one of whom hung out in his diagonally striped tie, and last and certainly not least Gulshan’s roommate Heather the Floridian. Good Times!

A Man Of High Mind 10.19.02

Personal note. I do not like midterms anymore. No longer are they a dirty backdrop to the sparkle of good times nor are they a measure of quick thinking. Now, they give me headaches-- I'm old.

Personal note. While I should have been studying I was watching Boise Sate vs. Fresno State, on Boise's blue turf. Good fun! There was an episode of the 5th Wheel. There was half of the X-Men cartoon Evolution. Pico should have worked on his crib sheet. But at least everyone else was in the room for a good long time also...

Personal note. The best place to scope out young liberal minded women might be Idealist.org's career fairs. My head was on a swivel yesterday as I roamed the conference center at Baruch College with my friend Jenna. She's known me since I was 13, she expects the infantile leering. Oh, but it was good. Mostly women, and many of them pretty and young. But not too young. Not like juvenile. Oh no. Stop looking at the screen like that. I'm not a dirtball.

There were interesting companies there, too.

Ten More 10.17.02

1. Birds of Prey is possibly the worst semi-cool superhero show I have ever seen. And I say this after seeing Shemar "Huh?" Moore and Ashley Scott (who plays the Huntress) sweating in a sauna, their clothes conveniently shed for comfort.

2. So, G-Dubs, homie, president, and the gentle simian smile that leads our nation through these new days of prosperity-- are we worried about Saddam, Saddam, Saddam (to the tune of Marcia, Marcia, Marcia) or are we worried about this Al Qaeda network that we are supposed to be committed to subduing, over the long haul? Just a question. I just want to know who I'm worried about when the amber alert goes NY Mets orange.

3. Does anyone know that elections are coming up for something or other? When do these elections happen anyway?!

4. Speaking of elections, let's talk about this week's man of the people, running as the extra candidate in the NY State elections. Tom Golisano. I appreciate the fact that he actually put an interesting ad up-- did you know medical marijuana is legal here? Well, that's what Tommy Golly tells me on the television.

5. Why was I watching Birds of Prey? Fastlane was on. And it's on tonight also. There are good books to read, the Russian Debutante's Handbook being my current non-school book. Instead I marvel at the horrendous dialogue. Is she still talking?

6. So, where was this "N'or'easter," such a hell of a storm that it requires weathermen to cower in fear, put their drama faces on, and drop consonants from their communications school taught speak-- in Nebraska accents of course? I mean, super fucking yawn. There was some falling mist, some wind, but nothing to make me think I was suddenly dumped in Newfoundland or anything. Nothing like the great ice storms of 1994. Yeah, those were the days, kids, sliding on my ass over those 18 miles to school...

7. No, really, it's like 18 miles to school!

8. Yeah, it's more on the bus and subway. But still! Oh, shut your trap and kiss my grits.

9. What? You wanted wisdom? I have midterms I'm not studying for-- ooh, Georgia Tech vs. Maryland!!

10. Oh. My. God. I have been whitewashed. I just turned on Friends and I found some of it hilarious! GOD HELP ME

I'm Absent Again 10.12.02

It is not, again, a good idea to go out and drink until 3 AM and then plot out "homeworks" or "memos." Thing is, we don't have to worry about such foolishness like lack of inspiration, or an inability to write. I am well versed in bullshit. I can write WHILE sleeping. I'll show you sometime, ladies, if you come over my house with a bottle of wine and a dirty mind.

What I do lack today is the internal control to not tell people where to go, where to get off, and where to stick the rats they find there.

Also, slight hangovers, lack of sleep, and an urge for cheese laden chips can only lead a man to one thing-- college football. The knowledge that Texas and Oklahoma are strapping it on and the big uglies are swapping some paint, in the words of Keith Jackson. I want to be splayed on a couch with chips at arms' length, and my feet up, a blanket around me, and my hand deep in my pants. I want to be too tired to turn off a West Virginia or Ohio State game, which invariably will be uninteresting.

I want my Saturdays back!!

Instead, I have accounting.

Of Note:

"Luck favors the prepared mind." - J. Craig Venter.

In Case You Were Wondering (excerpts from this month's Harper's Index)

If you think I'm lazy, ya goddamned right. I have schoolwork to hastily catch up on.


Ratio of U.S. external debt to that of all developing countries combined : 1:1

Ratio of the amount the U.S. pays to service this debt to the total amount developing countries pay : 1:15



Projected cost per mile of the security fence Israel is building around the West Bank : $2,563,600

Number of Jewish immigrants Prime Minister Ariel Sharon said in June that he wants to attract to Israel : 1,000,000


Number of the September 11 hijackers whose entry visas came through a special U.S.-Saudi "Visa Express" program : 3


Number of weapons seized in a 1962 desegregation riot at a fraternity then headed by future senator Trent Lott : 24


Number of lawsuits filed since 1999 against a firm then run by the man leading Bush's new Corporate Fraud Taskforce : 3

Amount that the company paid to settle the cases : $478,000,000


Number of appearances made by corporate representatives on U.S. network nightly newscasts last year : 955

Number of appearances made by labor representatives : 31


Number of square feet of retail space per American : 27


Number of U.S. supermarkets where shoppers can pay using fingerprint readers : 4

Total number of fingerprints on file with supermarkets so far : 6,000


Number of monkeys that the federal government has infected with smallpox since May 2001 : 24

from the Nation article Operation Endless Deployment:

Three years later, Bush's pledge to seek a more streamlined US global military presence has been cast aside under the guise of fighting "terrorists and tyrants" of Washington's choosing.

Since September 2001 US forces have built, upgraded or expanded military facilities in Bahrain, Qatar, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Oman, Turkey, Bulgaria, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan; authorized extended training missions or open-ended troop deployments in Djibouti, the Philippines and the former Soviet republic of Georgia; negotiated access to airfields in Kazakhstan; and engaged in major military exercises, involving thousands of US personnel, in Jordan, Kuwait and India. Thousands of tons of military equipment have been added to stockpiles already pre-positioned in Middle Eastern and Persian Gulf states, including Israel, Jordan, Kuwait and Qatar. And discussions are still under way with Yemen about increasing American access to facilities there and establishing an intelligence-gathering installation aimed at monitoring activities in Sudan and Somalia.

These forward bases, many of which have been arranged through secretive, ad hoc arrangements, currently house an estimated 60,000 US military personnel. This includes 20,000-25,000 troops in the Persian Gulf, poised to serve as the opening wave of a US invasion of Iraq.

Ghosts of Mars- a Quick Review 10.9.02

Believe me when I tell you that John Carpenter's movie, Ghosts of Mars, is high comedy.

Set on a cheap soundstage with cheap dialogue and chinatown's best smoke bombs, Natasha Henstridge teams with Ice Cube (here known as Desolation Williams) to fight with ghostly Martians who take over the bodies of Mars' toughest incarcarees. That would be the incarcerated. I don't have to use real words.

The Martians, played by the remaining members of the LA Guns, Faster Pussycat, Hanoi Rocks, and Motley Crue, after they attended the Gwar/ Tomahawk show out in Tuscon, throw sharpened dinner knives at people's necks and tap on metal walls with plastic swords. Mick Mars grew some size to play the Martian leader, with lines like raaagh. And Grrrargh. Plus Rrgh? Aarrrgh!

Through the fan-blown smoke and through the red flood lights, through the backdrop-- of which they could only afford to paint ten-fifteen feet and then show the same bit of painted landscape-- the two stars fight some unforgettably weak alien individuals who, by the way, have easy access to the Ricky's outlet on Mars.

Though Ms. Henstridge wears conveniently fashionable tight baby blue sweaters, and though for some reason we get to see her stand up in some athletically form-fitting underwear; and though Ice Cube gets to sneer and look people up and down; and though the movie includes Duane Davis (Alvin Mack from the Program, among other movies), I have one more gripe.

Cube doesn't even get any.

How am I supposed to live vicariously through him??

Even Ben Affleck gets to call his mate Matt Damon and his brother Casey and tell them, I got J-Lo in the cah, and I'm off to tap that ahss.

John Carpenter, why did you make this movie? Do you hate people this much?

ps, I'm still working on ideas.

The Violence and the Glory 10.8.02

Again, I am in need of inspiration.

Maggie passed along some info for a writing contest... with no real prizes beyond the knowledge that you have done something silly with your month. The idea? November is National Writing Month.

I have a plan. I am going to revisit a few ideas, slap on all together, cover them with two coats of slick dialogue and link it with some platitudes on the human condition and say that it all works together. If Todd Solondz can do it, well, so can I? Right?

Here is your mission, fair readers. Plot ideas. For the novel you wish someone would write. Make it trashy, ridiculous, inane, bizarre. Think of two kids kissing violently, of wars that happen on suburban blocks, farmers obsessed with the word gulag, horses high on turpentine, the adventure of toenails past.

I wish to be inspired by your goofiest. And I won't bite your idea. If that happens, I promise you a dinner deep in Vegas as we head for a second round of hard gambling on my fiction writing dimes.

Let your inertia be your guide. Be my inspiration! That means you, well-read Holiday.

Email me! I will tell you more about my ideas... probably in the NEXT blog.

Sweet + Relief II: A Mouth Full of Beauty 10.6.02

Did I mention that I had no date?

Did I mention that I hated my speech?

Well, in the past few years, I have turned into some spectacular kind of wimp. That's the only explanation, really. I am nervous in front of people when I shouldn't even give a fuck.

I was nervous as we were announced, in pairs. Like a starting line-up in basketball. Pete's playing small forward. Even though he's not, you know, small. In fact, I told him he'd play small forward like Kenyon Martin does. But of course, not with that athletic fury we'd all like to bring once in our lives. We'd stick power forward Matt on the perimeter, and his dad could play center. I'm the defensive shooting guard and Corey's our steady point.

That was a minute of your reading life you'd like to have back, isn't it?

After we have been seated at Matt + Angie's wedding, I am suddenly called up to give my speech/ toast. Really, I thought I'd have a few more minutes to collect my thoughts. But no, not at all.

I am in front of eagerly anticipating people, whom I don't know. Many of them graduates from the University of Buffalo. Dressed in their finery. Waiting for me to say something classic. I announce that I have no idea what I am going to say. I take a deep breath and begin to read some of the notes I'd written-- about how Matt and Angie were waiting for me to say the embarrassing stuff, how I was going to poke fun--

And then I started to ramble. I can't tell you most of the words I said. But in the ramble, I found a path, I found a tale of how good people always surround themselves with other good people, and so I knew Angie had to be quality... unless he'd lowered his standards. I began to speak directly to the newlyweds. And told them that I found them inspirational, natural. I ran out of safe words, because I wanted to say "Angie's not a bitch and she's not boring or demanding-- she's chill, she's one of the guys and still is feminine."

So I came up wit a reasonable facsimile of that sentiment, thanked them, raised a rambling glass, and put my sweating and twitching ass back in my seat.

Did I mention I had no date?

Sweet + Relief - A Wedding Weekend 10.6.02

You have been waiting with anticipation for this moment.

Yeah.

You want to know all about the wedding weekend. You want to share the romance with me and come into the tunnel of love with nothing but a torch and a smile. Edge of your seat, wiping the salivation from your lightly whiskered chin. Yeah, it's also time to shave. Or bleach, in the case of some people. Don't worry, I've always thought the little peach fuzz was sexy, hon.

But, I won't delay you any more. The great adventure came to an end. Of sorts. My dear friend Matt is now a married man. Which he makes me realize is not at all the end of the adventure, it's a beginning. I'm going to tell you all about it.

I can't even believe I'm writing that line, Matt is Married. *!* That's just silly, he's too young. His wife is too cool. Not for him. That's not what I mean. But for this institution of marriage. It's like... fun, exciting. It gives me hope. I'm excited to get married too, I want to throw a party and be the guest of honor and wear fancy lad clothes and have people watch me make out with my bitch.

Okay, my wedding counselor told me that's the first step to a successful string of dates which lead to expensive rings and a reason to vacation in Aruba, with the "playas". And one day I will remove the word "bitch" from of my vocab.

We did dinner in White Plains a/k/a the Cracker Flats a/k/a the Pale Savannah, with the families, the two groomsmen and myself, the best man. Also in attendance were the bridesmaids, their boyfriends, Matt's sister, her boyfriend... and a waitress who asked "how could ya hate De-rek Je-tah?" (That's how, bitch. Dammit, I did it again.)

Around a table of food and a whole lot of conversation, where I made fun of groomsman Corey-- who conveniently looks like Joe/ Joey McIntyre, the littlest New Kid on The Block. Most recently seen singing gospel songs. Soon to be seen as the new drama laden teacher on everyone's ludicrous favorite, Boston Public. Luckily for me, Corey also is a schoolteacher. Easy cracks flew. he was a little flustered.

On the nerdy side of the table, Pete and I acquainted ourselves with another Pete and Nghi (sp? sounds like Ne-hay, I think) over every bad horror/ 2 AM soft core movie we could think up.

That required a decompression period. We went home.

I was picked up by the groom himself at a station named Graystone on the Hudson line of the Metro-North. Or Grayskull. Or Graymalkin. This is a ride I recommend to everyone, especially to Holiday, who will wax poetic about it one day in Harper's or Esquire. All you see across the gleaming Hudson are cliff faces from Jersey, densely covered in trees. Sailboats, sunlight, and soon, foliage. It's a ridiculous view.

And dressed at the hotel. Also beautiful. I don't receive an endorsement fee from them, and I am not into free name dropping. Hint. Hint. Holiday.

Fast-forward through standing around, and photos where Pete/ Corey/ Pico cannot stop cracking jokes and falling over ourselves laughing. We're cool mellow fellows.

Until this Pico sees people come in.

I start to fret over everything. The speech in my pocket which I decided in the morning I hated; the rings in Angie's hands; the way I looked in a tuxedo; the fact that I was really the ONLY single person at the wedding. Wait, there was also Pete. That's NOT what I was looking for. And my aisle-walking consort Jessica was also sweating a little, and we're in a small white room peeking looks at people filing into the hall. We've been blessed with some munchies to keep us from passing out and some water to keep the cottonmouth at bay. This whole procession thing is taking too long, and we've only run through it once; there is a small aisle and what if we trip? What if someone sneezes real hard? It's outdoors, what if we can hear a passing train? What if some jealous ex-lover is barreling down route 9 intent on breaking up the wedding?

Corey/ Pete/ Pico cannot smile anymore. We've all got the jitters. And Corey's already married. He's been through it! Unlike me...

But there we are, Jessica and I, arm in arm, a pair of horn players (yes, I was so nervous I couldn't tell you if they were playing the oboe or the skin flute) rocking out the wedding march. It's six in the evening; the sun is beginning to lay down towards the western horizon, over the cliffs. The water is shimmering less but blue and dotted with sailboats and turning over with gentle froth. Birds are nearby, the sounds of the upstairs party are over. Three columns of seats on each side of the aisle stretch about 25 deep and a white paper carpet covers the grassy stretch between us and the reverend at the altar.

It's about 65 degrees, enough for a slight chill but also decent for those in sleeveless dresses. Corey, Pete follow with their bridesmaids, Nghi and Greta; Matt and parents; Angie and parents.

It's on.

Wedding stuff happens. I present the rings. Shaking imperceptibly. No one notices.

I present a glass for Matt to step on. Actually, it's not a glass, it's a light bulb. I won't get into all that. It's symbolic, after all.

And as they kiss, I notice the purple ridges of clouds in the distance, the eyes of the bridesmaids, and I cannot help but smile my ass off.

As an aside, if any of you want to set me up with one of your cute friends, which (once I get my school crap all settled) I of course welcome... with open arms, not an open fly, you dirtballs... I want you to know I don't actually use the word bitch. I just thought it would be an excellent mood lightener.

Those dirty little shits in the Mets front office, Phillips and Wilpon, have fired Bobby Valentine from his post as manager of the NY Mets. Like it's his fault they brought some crap in. How can you make a free swinging .210 hitter good? How about your franchise player having an off year? Maybe they need a new voice, maybe they'll make fewer errors, maybe the inmates will be run out of the asylum-- Rey Ordonez, don't call the paying customers stupid, okay?

But I'll be sad to see the scheming, duplicitous Bobby V, the same man with the restaurants, the same man who squeezes wins out of a team that never has enough horses to compete no matter what the payroll is... it's sad to see him go. Instead of General Manager Steve Phillips, the man who can't bring elite pitchers in but sends decent major leaguers out. If you'd like you can watch a couple of them today-- Terrence Long (starting center fielder, all year) and Erik Hiljus (sometimes starting pitcher) of the A's, Darren Bragg and Matt Franco with the Braves; jason Isringhausen (All-Star closer for the Cardinals); Kevin Appier (second starter for the Anaheim Angels), et cetera.

Sometimes he gets decent major leaguers back (Mo Vaughn for Appier). And sometimes he gets Billy Taylor, a 40-year old middle reliever, for Terrence Long and some other player, perhaps Hiljus. Taylor pitched maybe twice and the look of horror on Mets' fans and Mets' players said it all. That was the end.

More later. For fuck's sake, I should be at school.

30 September 2002

In Search of Inspiration

"Writing is making choices, and the choices we make can be generic, which will cost us our reader's faith, or specific, which will gain our reader's trust.... The reader trusts us because we give enough detail for oiur eyes-- which they are using-- to be trusted."

-Julia Cameron

After this weekend I am in search of inspiration. Sitting in bed, looking up at the ceiling; staring at books looking for the urge to read; staring at dinner, waiting for the urge to eat. Watching my favorite football teams lose very badly. Trying to sleep. Attempting to organize. Waiting for a spark.

This weekend was the bachelor party, as previously mentioned. I am not as sprightly as I used to be, I realize. One would think that after an evening of drinking and games and titty I would be such a happy young man. I was tired, that's what I was. It was kind of poor. I enjopyed chilling with the guys, meeting the other male members of the wedding party. I liked the games-- my hockey slap shot kept going in. I might have to play blacktop street hockey after all.

But by the time the flagrant nudity and lap dances came up, I was all tired out.

In truth I think the nature of the strip club doesn't do it for me. There you are, crisp dollar bills in hand, in a place that looks like strip clubs in b-movies. With the exception of the hard nosed cop who has fallen out of grace, it was all there. Lots of mirrors to make the dimly lit area look even bigger. Large neon sign to the champagne room. Some fella who couldn't cut it as a wedding DJ or a local Opie & Anthony knockoff is playing the hits of the 80's and hip hop from today. Skinny girls with heavy accents keep massaging your neck or grasping your hand and asking how you are and if you want a dance. Especially to your little friend.

There is a lot of reaching, and a lot of fellas staring at some thangs they can't touch. It's tiresome, in a way. Personally, I like to touch. And it is good to see your friend get a dance from the good looking stripper. But not all of them are that hot. I expected fake boobs all over the place. And there weren't too many. I thought I'd get the "Jenny Jones Show" and instead I got slatternly high school girls. At least the one I got a dance from was FUNNY. Ah, well.

Mr. Conroy, good to run into you. Outside the strip club, of course.

Now, I am off to find inspiration. And a paying part-time job, because I have no income, and no money. Sigh.

Blog Against Song Against Sex

Well, that's not so true. While I can applaud Marla for the Jud Timberpond link, and while I am bringing a bunch of boys who keep reciting lines from Dr. Dre's the chronic-- and I don't mean the weed-smoking lines-- to a strip club, I also want to talk about the coolest song I have heard this week.

But that will wait until tomorrow. I got to go see some oversized titty and bikini wrapped kitty. Drink some beer and spread some... cheer. I don't have anything more to say, really. I am leading cats to a strip club and I have never been to one before. Nope, never. That's right. Maybe that's why I'm such a gol-danged nancy boy. But after tonight, oh, after tonight, you are going to see a completely different pico.

Lake of Burning Branches

I could talk about the long conversation I had with the man who railed against G-Dub da Prez' reactions (overreactions, this man felt) "when they kill another fucking Arab."

Or I could go into whether of not it is right to assail G-Dub for his economic handling, and the fact that his handle has the economic indicators dropping like they're hot.

Or I could discuss the this British report on Iraq's ability to launch weaponry during an episode of Smallville.

Instead, I want to touch on Justin Timberlake. I saw the video for his new single "Like I Love You" on MTV a couple of late nights ago. I was bored. There was a commercial in the dating show I was watching, I think it was the Fifth Wheel. Mmm, Aisha Tyler... mmm...

Jud Timberpond's song was kind of HOT. I couldn't stop singing it. I went out and downloaded it. I wanted to rub it on my tummy like pudding and in my hair like Afro-Sheen drops. I realized that was a level of excitement better saved for better music, and I listened a little closer to this catchy candy bar of a song.

I am still a little impressed with his ability to hit some notes, and sing r & b with some passion. "And then," as he sings with drama and style. And then some rent-a-rapper comes into the scene and ruins the whole bitch. This guy rapped about something-or-other with no consequence. I can't even string his words together into a coherent thought. Before he came in, it was like Justin created a song that was about lust and passion and and high notes and asking someone to hold your coat while you style across the floor. And then we get some cat rapping about how "a few words lead to sex," and he's rapping with "J" and that is an impressive feat.

that last line alone makes it a much less impressive feat. Then I realized that the Neptunes produced the song. The hitmakers that they are, they knew the key to pop cash is the requisite rapper in the middle. You know, for the kids. And the street cred. Sometimes I forget that this is a business to produce radio hits, not tear up the mic with some hot lines and spit some lust into a sweating and salivating horny l'il squealing girl crowd. After all, no one can resist a squealing girl, least of all their moneymaking daddies. Cash motherfucking money.

Castles Made of Sand

It's been a while since I have written, I know, I know. So it's up to me to come up with enough entertainment and softcore porn to keep all of you kids up and active at your computers.

I know, I know.

This is my job. Well, I have started graduate school and everything is jake, aces, capital, prime, et cetera. Meanwhile I am thinking hard about how I am going to produce the dirtiest bachelor party ever seen. This saturday. if you have any input, oh, please, you can email me. Touch me with your knowledge.

Thing is, I have a basic plan, which is Manhattan based and will be beer-soaked. But I don't have the specifics as of yet. Or anything so filthy sounding it's apalling. That's what I am looking for.

Perhaps when I am done with my statistics homework, then I will turn my attention to writing something more exciting and invigorating...

Later.