Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Golden D'Oh 3.31.04

Normally, I would say that Paul Hornung is using his freedom of speech a little loosely; that there is a difference between propaganda (let’s say from our current government) and open expression, and an additional difference between those and hateful, mean-spirited language that only opens old wounds. I don’t believe in the power of racially-charged or separatist terms, and really, Hornung should go on about how Notre Dame needs to lower standards to get ANY athletes.

Additionally, there have been black athletes at Notre Dame. Anyone I remember from their squads the past three years has been black, with the exception of transfer Matt LoVecchio. That having been said, I don’t think his statement, taken at face value, and not in context of the rest of his interview, is the worst thing anyone has said.
Hang Out With My Wang Out 3.31.04

I could talk about how I don't have so much to say, how I haven't been going out, taking you through attempts to re-energize myself, to get back to writing, to find a job, but that's entirely too revelatory. Also, I am distracted by Janet Jackson and Jermaine Dupri's impending nuptials. Isn't he midget sized? Smaller than Prince? Man, there is hope for ALL of us. I'm going to stop watching Blind Date and hit on very hot women now.

Monday, March 29, 2004

Tool Disclosure 3.29.04

What I failed to mention is that after Selvadurai and I left the glowing theatre crowd that watched Bombay Dreams with us (who left using those theatre-fan standbys, “fabulous,” “wonderful performance” and such), we took the subway downtown. The F was not running to 2nd Avenue, where we were to meet Starla and her merry women. It was 11 pm and we decided to walk through the drunken jungle of the Village, NYU students interspersed with a little bridge and a little tunnel and a lot of hair gel.

The best part was the fellows behind us, about half a block behind from MacDougal Street to Broadway. One was large and loud and cursed like a teenager. The second was small and Napoleonic and cursed like Stifler. He was about three apples high, the usual blue pique-knit oxford, the usual Dockers, the usual paunch. Prime moments include him banging on a taxi’s hood, in the middle of the street with the light against him, yelling about how he was born in this country; some combination of cock and ass and more cock and bitch that was actually offensive to my ears; and the yelling of “can a n***a get a table dance.” Over and over again.

Guesses: He’s secretly the writer of this confused article defending a full range of speech. Perhaps he also enjoys Details Magazine, the publication responsible for this winner of a picture. But that's simply a loose guess.

Sunday, March 28, 2004

Slimpy 3.28.03

There is nothing like seeing your boy on a raised platform, banging a drum, within drooling distance of 8 nubile young brown women in skimpy outfits. Also, the show, Bombay Dreams—great energy. Fun to watch. Go see it. Suzun and Samantha and Dave all pointed out that I do not update my blog enough. I will try to do better. it’s been a long winter, and I am still digging for my motivation. So this week, we will follow the life of a thug, perhaps.

Thursday, March 25, 2004

Spanking 3.25.03

New links in bold, and a new section to boot. Check out the links; Beautiful Stuff will entertain you for days. I swear. Links to lit/ criticism, a good writer, and some funny stuff. To boot. I already used that one. I am SO unoriginal, like, God.

I have to stop watching the OC. Pixel, did you tape it? I missed the first 17 minutes.

Plus: pictures from Gulshan + Pico's party.

Plus:play Babble online. It's like the great Boggle.

Plus: For your politics and sarcasm.
The Drool Just Keeps On Coming. 3.25.03

Gulshan, I know you are a Scarlett Johanssen fan. Now, I am too.

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

Any Gunplay Will Be Answered 3.24.03

Today I saw my first episode of HBO’s new show Deadwood. It follows what one might think an HBO drama about the old west would. There is a lot of dust on people, references to whiskey, wild moustaches, an opening featuring a man who is “helped” in his hanging execution by a sheriff who yanks the cord to expedite the process, and whore who gets beat twice; the man who does it is shot through the head, a metal dipstick stuck through it, his body tossed in a pig sty. You know, just for good measure.

There is a fellow with a great Irish accent that sounds almost Jamaican, swindling the “goose looking man in the shiny suit.”

The old west might have been dirty but this is actually unpleasant. Perhaps true to life? The attitudes are rude and the drunks are plentiful, people fight in the streets, people carry on with torches in their hands. Now, I am no old west scholar; but I do wonder about the use of modern profanity (and of course, the change in accents). “Shit” is a fecal leaving. “Son of a bitch” is a colorful description of a person. “Cocksucker,” maybe. But the constant and unrelenting use of the word “fuck?”

Well, here is an etymology of the word here.

Thursday, March 18, 2004

Letter to Misanthrope. 3.18.03

How is the UK? Are you spelling more things in the British way yet? Have you referred to something using “queen,” as in “the queen’s English,” and such?

This will be short. I am taking a short trip and will be back tomorrow to watch college basketball. I know. You’re excited. But that’s how it rolls here. On the way up to this computer lab I was reminded once again that tourists are very annoying. All of Michigan seems to have descended upon Canal Street, now that it’s in the 40’s and sunny and the snow is melting—yes we got another snow.

But there they are, in Michigan hats and shirts, standing, gawking at bling, thinking about NYC t-shirts, moving even slower than the notoriously slow denizens of Chinatown. I am listening to The Streets as I walk by and I want to punch them. Or eliminate them. They are younger and on the subway, older and looking at restaurants. Why do people want to live in Manhattan? It’s filled with interlopers. Oh. Those are interlopers too. (Brown Boy, when you come to New York, please be considerate, don’t take up the whole sidewalk—we don’t have that much real estate. Thank you.)

Hey, I got to run. Be well. Keep reading. I will leave you with this—this has been a hustlin’ ass city the past couple of days, the best being the panhandler followed by the kids selling candy for their basketball team’s jerseys followed by a woman with a gorgeous gospel voice singing and preaching for way too long in front of the fella wearing a yarmulke (sp?).

“Lock stock and two fat f**ks backin’ ‘em up.” – The Streets

Tuesday, March 16, 2004

Monday, March 15, 2004

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year 3.15.03

it's time for the office pool, fool. check out some team profiles. later this week, there will be some picks and ideas on the other blog.

Saturday, March 13, 2004

Protest? 3.13.04

This afternoon in front of the U.N. there will be a protest against the terrorists (whoever they are. We don't yet know) who blew up the train in Madrid.

Who are these people protesting? What is a protest going to do? Someone who likes to protest, please tell me what effect it has. Registers outrage? I think most human beings understand the outrage (though the Daily News cover calling the attack Spain's September 11th is a bit much. It's their March 11th); and is there something that could have been reasonably done to prevent this? Was there a warning that was ignored? Have the politicians (Spainiards are getting set to elect a Prime Minister) somehow encouraged this kind of activity? Was there slack vigilance? No? Then what is this protest going to consist of?
Tonight, I'm Gonna Have Myself A Real Good Time 3.13.04

Last night I was conned into travelling to Brooklyn, conned by the promise of art galleries and the sisters Dunsmuir, conned by an early evening--

So it goes. Selvadurai/ Samantha/ myself ended up at the Last Exit, where I promptly ran into a kid named Nicole from my grad school and all of her curly hair, and another young lady named Katherine, who reminded me that I have been so bad about staying in touch with Michelle and Courtney from HS that Courtney's @#$&%^!! married already. At least I knew that one was coming; finding out Laurie (who introduced me to Schneider and vice-versa, on a warm summer's eve in 1996 before he entered our fine University) had also married was a complete shock. So it goes.

But tonight, like Queen said, I am going to have myself a real good time. I hope to see lots of short plaid skirts dancing in what little space they can carve out. Welcome back to the city, Gulshan, for one night only.

Wednesday, March 10, 2004

W.W.DJ.D 3.10.04

On my way home from class, a woman sitting next to me propositioned me with an offer to attend her church. She asked if I had a place to worship, offered me a pamphlet. I told her I did (though I haven’t been back there in years). As she wished me a good day and walked to the front of the bus, my mp3 player delivered this response:

Big titty b***h/ they think they is the s**t/ bring yo’ a** here/ and ride on this d**k/ ride, ride, ride, ride, ride, ride/ let me bang!

There are better and more appropriate responses, but I liked that one. DJ Assault? That boy needs the Lord in his life.

Tuesday, March 09, 2004

The Future, My Boy? Plastics 3.09.04

I am finally in my bed, with my laptop in hand, a Fundamentals of Municipal Bonds book at my side. Nascar, I bet you and Eben think I don’t do any work. Triiiick! It’s 2.03 in the AM and I am going to tell you a little bit about recycling in my neighborhood before I go to sleep.

Now, for weeks we have been trying to get a blue 30-gallon container of plastic recyclable goodies out on the sidewalk so the fine people at NYC’s Department of Sanitation can pick it up. Yet every time we do it in a logical sense—the Tuesday morning we are used to—it remains, through the day, into the next, neglected. Filling. Too high now for the can to properly close. Don’t tell anyone… but I have taken to throwing some recyclables in with the regular trash. Shh. I know where you e-mail.

For my part, I really should have tried to call someone at Sanitation or at 311 and be like, “when is this pickup, snatch?” But like Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part. So hard, so daunting, I’d rather not do waste that time, so to speak.

I had watched a little bit of Gonzaga’s conference final for inspiration and information, in part because I am going back to work on the sports web log (and the short story web log too), and in part because procrastination has been the business for a couple of… years… like I am doing now. But in a fit of pasta-stuck-in-tummy, I stayed awake and made some notes for my paper, skimmed undone reading, and heard the familiar whirring drone down the block—

And it’s too late for anything to make that much noise besides—


Out of my pajama pants and into a pair of worn Banana Republic chinos, an embarrassing fact only offset by the fact that these pants are four years old, faded, and back in their original heap over my chair. The hoodie covered my top. Old socks. Track-style Pumas. And out with tonight’s garbage, too.

The truck was revving up and about to tear past 7 houses who had not yet put out their recycling. The air was crisp and not as cold as I expected. My heart was up and going. The mist fell on the grass. The driveway, deeper beige and the concrete sidewalks, gray with wetness.

I saw them about to race past and I raced the truck to a spot on the edge of our property. Held them with a hand and a yell just loud enough to notice. And back to the side of the house, hustling a can full of juice and milk containers, glass pasta bottles, various containers, with a little stink on them. In the hustle my ankle turned a little—the pumas are not the best for ankle support and I have ankles like a chicken. But it was all gravy; I stood and watched as the pile of plastic met its second-to-last resting place, mashed into a mass, left side of the recycling truck. Relishing the cold air. A spontaneous sprint well done.

Monday, March 08, 2004

Codicils 3.08.04

· The moment I’ve been waiting for: finally the end of Melrose Place, in reruns, on the Style network. I am almost embarrassed to say that I have attempted to watch every episode of Melrose Place. I am not really sure why. I think I wanted to track how the show went from a respectable attempt at drama to the worst in heavy syrup. I could go on and on with actual analysis, how bad Jamie Luner was, the ridiculous misuse of Rena Sofer; but for months now, I have been praying for it to end. After Sydney gets run over by her old roommate’s escaped convict father on her wedding day, and Sydney’s husband commits suicide on the side of the road, the shark had officially been jumped.

· I wonder if J-Lo’s new perfume smells like ass? Or does it smell like the Bronx? Is there a difference?

· I’m starting a war on people who don’t get the sarcasm. You know who you are.

· How did y’all like the Hours? I just started the movie and my gosh, it’s kind of… unexciting. It’s improving but damn. That’s a slow ass beginning. Maybe this is why I never read any Virginia Woolf.

Monday, March 01, 2004

I'd Like To Thank The Academy and Deez Nuts. 3.01.04

Welcome to March and someone tell that PA- groundhog his prognostication skills just aren't thorough. Punk. And since the mewling and the blubbering and the crying is over, I guess the Academy Awards are finally over. Hey, Silver, did my favorite movie win any awards?