Friday, June 15, 2007

Oh. I Didn’t See You There.

You ever have one of those weeks where all of a sudden you wake up and it’s Friday and you’re like, “Huh? That went by fast.” Not just like you wake up and can’t believe it all happened so quickly, but like can’t believe it because you can’t remember the past four days? Because of all the meth? And as you put down the bottle of Jack and shoo the strange cat out of the bathroom all you can think is, “Man, I hope I didn’t blog anything stupid.” And then you’re relieved to find that you didn’t blog anything at all? Yeah. Me too.

So you see, sometimes it’s a good thing that I don’t keep up with stuff here. Because while this is supposed to be an accounting of my life, the bottom line is if it’s not amusing no one cares. And sometimes I just don’t feel funny. Sometimes I feel anxious, or sad, or unusual, or like a carebear. And carebears aren’t really witty, they’re just cheerful. Which isn’t all that interesting.

For example, here are a few posts I would have written this week:

Monday – Last Night My Girlfriend Hit On A Homosexual TV Star

SYNOPSIS: That’s about it.
EMOTION: Anxious

Tuesday – Why I Love My Staple Remover

SYNOPSIS: Because it’s tortoise shell, and not enough things are.
EMOTION: Anxious

Wednesday – I Had Donuts For Lunch Today

SYNOPSIS: They were delicious.

Thursday – Everyone Should Stop Making Fun of Cat Deely Because When We’re Married It Will Be Awkward

SYNOPSIS: She’s the host of “So You Think You Can Dance,” asshole.
EMOTION: Carebear

See? Why waste your time with 2,000 superfluous words? More importantly, why waste my precious emotional resources? A man shares only so much over the course of his life. While women may be renewable wellsprings of emotion and feeling, men are like small ponds. And as women and blog readers sip from them like deer in a forest, they are depleted until finally one day they are empty, which is the day you buy your first recliner.

Besides, I don’t know what sort of white rabbit we’re chasing anyway with all this writing and sharing. Take Rastus for example. Rastus is the guy on the Cream of Wheat Box. But Rastus is just a depiction of a real man, Frank “Irony” White, a chef who posed for the box way back in 1900 when Cream of Wheat was actually made solely by black men in hats named Rastus.

Then, in 1938, White passed away, a virtual unknown, with a blank gravestone. The man is on the Cream of Wheat box and he can’t even get a friggin “RIP, Rastus. Keep on creamin’ that wheat up in the Big Kitchen”? Finally, almost 70 years later, some guy named Jesse Lasorda started a campaign to get him a proper gravestone with an etching of the Cream of Wheat box on it.

My point being, if the goddamned face of Cream of Wheat can fade off into obscurity, even when it’s right there on the shelf next to the Farina kid’s face (whose name, by the way, no one knows – maybe it’s just a warm breakfast cereal curse?) then what’s the point of blogging? I like to aim all my actions at being remembered after I die, because let’s face it I’m into the “big picture” stuff. So if I have limited resources with which to entertain and an open-ended timeline for failure, why do I keep on trying?

And the answer is, this:

Friday, June 8, 2007

Which of These Pictures Makes You Happier?


It’s a trick question. Because nothing can possibly make you happier than the first picture. Unless you’re a “good person” or a “Christian,” in which case you may pick the second picture. And then you’d go on and on about how puppies are a gift from God. Well you know what else is a gift from God? Justice!

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Emailing It In: Corresponding With Spammers

From: Jean Martins
To: Brooke
Sent: Thursday, June 07, 2007 1:30 PM
Subject: From Miss Jean Martins

Hello dear,

With profound respect and humble submission, I beg to state the following few lines for your kind consideration, I hope you will spare some of your valuable minutes to read the following appeal with sympathetic mind. I must confess that it is with great hopes, joy and enthusiasm that I write you this mail which I know and believe by faith that it must surely find you in good condition of health. My name is Jean Martins, I am the only daughter of my late parents Mr. and Mrs. D. Martins. My father was a highly reputable business magnet who operated in the capital of Ivory coast during his days.

It is sad to say that he passed away mysteriously in France during one of his business trips abroad on the 12th September 2004. Though his sudden death was linked or rather suspected to have been masterminded by an uncle of mine who traveled with him at that time. But God knows the truth! My mother died when I was just 6yrs old, and since then my father took me so special.

Before the death of my father on September 2004, he called me and informed me that he has the sum of Five Million, Seven Hundred thousand United State Dollars.(USD$5,700,000.00) he deposited in a private Bank here in Abidjan Cote D'Ivoire.. He told me that he deposited the money in my name, and also gave me all the necessary but legal documents regarding to this deposit with the Bank

I am just 23 years old and a university undergraduate and really don't know what to do. Now I want an honest and GOD fearing partner overseas who I can transfer this money with his assistance and after the transaction I will come and reside permanently in your country till such a time that it will be convenient for me to return back home if I so desire. This is because I have suffered a lot of set backs as a result of incessant political crisis here in Ivory coast. The death of my father actually brought sorrow to my life. I also want to invest the fund under your care because I am ignorant of business world.

I am in a sincere desire of your humble assistance in this regards. Your suggestions and ideas will be highly regarded. Now permit me to ask these few questions:

1. Can you honestly help me from your heart?
2. Can I completely trust you?
3. What percentage of the total amount in question will be good for you after the fund has being transferred to your account and i come over to meet you ?

Please, consider this and get back to me as soon as possible. Immediately I confirm your willingness, I will send to you my Picture and also inform you more details involved in this matter. Kind Regards, please reply through my private email above for security reasons,

Miss Jean Martins.

From: Brooke
To: Jean Martins
Sent: Thursday, June 07, 2007 3:22 PM
Subject: Re: From Miss Jean Martins

Hello Jean,

I am very interested in the story of your father. I remember the fall of 2004 like it was just a few years ago. The very idea of suffering such an irrevocable loss at the hands of a diabolical uncle, no less, sounds truly sardonic.

I once sailed the great seas of the Ivory Coast with my late grandfather, Captain John Hook. This was before he died tragically in a nefarious plot thrust upon him by an overgrown child and a sporadically coy alligator.

Before grandpappy was carried off, he told me about a great treasure buried some twenty thousand leagues under the sea. The booty is worth five billion, six hundred and twenty three thousand pounds and 72 rubbles. ($5,000,623,000. 17).

I went to the British coal/sea mining board with my completely legal claims to the treasure and proposal for its recovery. But alas, I am no sailor, and I lack the necessary equipment to retrieve the amber gold.

As a fellow God fearing citizen I implore you to help me recover my grandpappy's treasure. All I need is:

1. A large submarine.
2. Several shovels.
3. 200,000 dollars in non-consecutive bills deposited to my overseas account.

Please get back to me as soon as possible regarding this most important of matters.

Kind Regards,

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

Hopefully My Boss And My Landlord Don’t Read My Blog

Yesterday, I stayed home from work because I was sick (cough).

Some days you wake up and it is good enough just to be alive. “Oh good,” you say. “I didn’t die.” This wasn’t one of those mornings. This was one of those mornings where the sun hurts your eyes, sounds hurt your ears and your shower is just a sad place without a bed.

Brooke and Puppy had stayed at my apartment the night before and as I awoke and saw Brooke getting out of bed, I thought, “No thanks.” Then I noticed that my cell phone was right next to my bed, so I could literally call work to tell them I was not coming in without my head ever leaving my pillow. Plus, as Brooke left the bed, the dog climbed up and laid down to replace her. It was as though he was saying, using his heightened canine intuition, “You shouldn’t go to work today. You should stay here with me and play. And feed me. Feed me all day long.”

The only (small) problem is that technically Puppy isn’t allowed in my building. There’s some “stipulation” in my “lease” about it, but who knows what all that means? I’m no paralegal. The way I see it, I’m not harboring him. He’s not a fugitive. He didn’t stab another dog at the dog park and then flee to my apartment to go into hiding. Besides the fact that the little knife doesn’t stay on no matter how hard we tie it, he can’t even lean how to “shake” let alone “stab.” It’s all absurd. And as a general rule, absurd laws carry no weight.

Still, America is about keeping up appearances. So whenever Puppy comes over, he enters and leaves the building disguised as a bag. I like to think of it that way because it sound better than, “We put him in a bag.” It’s not a bag like a trash bag. It’s not like I sling him over my shoulder and should I come across anyone in the elevator I just swing the bag nonchalantly side to side, hitting it against the wall to subtly suggest, There aren’t any living things in here. It’s more like a shoulder bag, the kind girls wear when they go to the beach, or the kind people make fun of guys for wearing when they’re walking a dog. It’s more humane for him than it is for me, trust me.

Anyway, I stayed home and the dog stayed with me. We slept and did some male bonding (watched SportsCenter twice while licking ourselves). It was awesome. Until I finally ventured to the windows and opened the blinds. On the windowsill was a huge puddle of water. “This is odd,” I thought. “Water doesn’t belong here.” I looked up and saw a tiny crack in the top of the windowsill where the water was dripping from. I looked at Puppy. “This isn’t good.” Puppy looked at me.

I needed to call the super, but the dog couldn’t be there when the super arrived. I thought about hiding him in the bathroom, but then reconsidered when I thought of the possibility that Puppy could get anxious and start scratching at the door, and nothing raises suspicion like someone scratching from the inside of your bathroom door. At that point, you either have a dog in there or a very weak human. Neither comes off well.

The only thing to do was to go to Brooke’s apartment and call the super once we had left. I rushed to shower and change as quickly as possible, barking (ha) orders at the dog like, “Get ready to go!” and “Pack a bag!” It’s sad, I know, that I would do that when it’s just me and the dog there. It’s like making jokes for my own benefit and, worse, repeating them on my blog for the benefit of others. It’s kind of sick actually. Maybe I shouldn’t include this.

As I finished putting on my shoes and grabbing for Puppy’s leash, I realized something. I didn’t have the bag. The night before, under the cover of darkness, we had simply picked the dog up and carried him like a stuffed animal. But now, during the middle of the day, there would be no way of hiding that the dog in my arm was in fact moving. I had two bags of my own to choose from: a messenger bag and a rolling suitcase. Neither were the optimal choice. I was panicked. We were taking on water. We had to leave. I picked him up, tucked him under my arm like a football and peeked my head out the door. The hallway was clear. I made my way down the hall. Just as I reached the elevator, however, the door was opening and someone was getting out. I quickly ducked into the stairwell adjacent to the elevators. In my head, it was an awesome move. In my head, it was just like in the movies where the stairwell door closes quietly behind me just as the person is walking by, none the wiser. In reality, the door probably hung open five seconds too long and as the person walked by all they saw was the guy from 7G apparently stealing a shih tzu.

We rushed down the seven flights with me still talking to the dog (“That was a close one”) and the dog still not understand a word I say.

As we approached the first floor, I peered through the small window in the door leading out into the lobby to see if the coast was clear. It wasn’t. The super was standing there with a crew of workers. Apparently they knew about the leak. He was pointing and gesturing and giving them orders, which I imagined were, “You, cover the back entrance. You, go up to the 7th floor. This guy isn’t getting out of here with that dog.” I was nervous. Puppy was not.

Finally, the group seemed to be moving towards the elevator bank and away from the front entrance. As soon as they were out of my line of vision, I made a break for the door. Carrying the dog in front of me, like a hero protecting a small child from flames or gunfire, I burst through the door. If I had a special effects budget, it would have been in slow motion with music booming in the background. And just as I was about to hit the street, fresh air, freedom . . . it all came crashing down. It was like the climactic scene of “The Professional.” Two steps from the door, another tenant comes walking in. She is carrying bags, struggling to fit through the opening. I am blocked. My super is behind me. I step to the side. The woman comments, “WHAT A CUTE DOOOG!” My spot – blown up. I wave to my super with my free hand. We walk outside into the rain, and I am sad I ever left bed in the first place.

Editorial note: I had intended to use the “(cough)” insertion to denote “I’m being surreptitious. I was faking it and staying home to enjoy a day off.” But I soon realized that when you write “sick (cough)” it actually just sounds like you are sick. Point being – I’m not sick, mom. Don’t call. I’m OK.

Friday, June 1, 2007

(If My Blog Was More Like The Superficial)
The Loch Ness Monster is shy

The legendary Loch Ness Monster was caught on tape by an amateur scientist in Scotland over the weekend.

I’m no expert, but I know a think or two about the high price of fame. One time I was being chased by a band of paparazzi and had to jump into a nearby river for cover. I held my breath for 14 minutes as I swam to freedom. Of course, once I got to shore there was just another group of nasty photographers waiting for me. And they’re all like, “There he is! There’s the monster!” The monster of love.

Besides, I wouldn’t want to be caught on tape either if I was that fat. I didn’t even know they had lenses that big. It’s like he ate a whale, only at the time the whale was riding Rosie O’Donnell.