Saturday, February 28, 2009

No F'n Way

Okay, so I’m zipping around the interwebs today and I stumbled across PEOPLE and TMZ and both are reporting that Rihanna and Chris Brown are getting back together. I’m not much of a celebrity gossip monger, but this is f’n ridiculous and warrants some bloggage.

How in the hell can Rihanna be willing to get back with the dude who pummeled her less than a month ago?! If you’ve seen the photos (which are not by any means pretty) you can tell he did some real damage and now she’s going back to him?!

Although Rihanna doesn’t exactly float my boat, I know that there are about eight billion dudes and probably a solid bevy of chicks out there who would kill a clown at their own kid’s birthday party for a chance to date Rihanna and she goes back to the prick that used her face as a punching bag, come on.

Rihanna is in a position where she’s a role model to thousands of young girls and she’s essentially giving them the message that it’s a-okay to let a dude hit you if you love each other, because you can always get back together in the end and live happily ever after.


I’m sure there is “more to the story” and I’m sure that he’ll “never do it again,” but either way the entire situation reeks of suckitude.

And, Rihanna, when you read this I want to make it very clear that you DO NOT have my blessing to go back to that asshole.

Hilary Duff. Quiznos. Awkward Social Interactions.

So I was sitting in Quiznos today, working on devouring my second large sub. Not because I’m a fatty mind you, but because I had a two for one coupon. You can’t pass up a deal like that.

Anyway, so I’m finishing the sub and a song comes on the radio that gets all of the people at the two tables next to me bobbing their heads.

These two tables belonged to two very different sects of people. The first table was a group of 50-something parents and the other table was full of what seemed to be their 20-something money-draining, college-attending children.

Well, they’re all bobbing along and swaying and both tables start asking the same question amongst themselves…what song is this?

I leaned over and informed them that they were listening to ”Come Clean” by Hilary Duff.

At that point, I saw the most cataclysmic mix of emotions ever.

Some of the parents looked concerned that I might be bulimic, given that I was eating two large subs and was, as one of them would whisper across the table, “skinny as a rail.” Then the concern gave way to confusion as to why the dude who is going to go home and puke up two large subs was butting into their conversation. The confusion then moved onto trying to figure out what the hell a Hilary Duff was and/or who the lead singer of Hilary Duff was.

The college kids looked embarrassed for having shown any sort of interest in a Hilary Duff song and on top of the embarrassment they were sending out vibes of pure and utter shame to me for having not only known that it was, in fact, Hilary Duff and being able to identify the song, but mostly because I’d felt compelled to share this information with others.

Personally, I was okay with knowing that it was Hilary Duff and I was okay with knowing the song…I mean seriously, I do have a very eclectic mix of music.

My need to share that information, however, baffles me as well and I whole-heartedly accept the shame those college kids bestowed upon me today. Next time I’ll resist the urge to share my knowledge of teeny-bopper pop music and just eat my subs in silence.

Friday, February 27, 2009

People I May Know

Hey I don't know about the rest of all ya'll out there, but has anyone else noticed that all of the people Facebook recommends as the “People You May Know” are complete strangers?

To date, I think I've actually recognized two maybe three people out of the hundreds of folks Facebook has thrown my way as potential friends.

Maybe what really bugs me, isn't the fact that Facebook is just going around all wily-nilly choosing people who are friends of friends of friends of friends of my friends...but rather, the fact that the folks at Facebook find it necessary to do so at all.

I've already got plenty of friends on Facebook. I've got all my peeps at MIT, folks from MSU, all of The Boys from back home and a rather eclectic collection of random half-naked chicks I've never met from the University of North Texas (a mystery that remains unsolved).

For the most part if I want someone to be my friend on Facebook, I'll send them a friend request or vice versa.


End of story.

There is simply no need for Facebook to be rootin' around everyone's friend list looking for someone I may or may not have met at a keg party sophomore year of college while all blurry-eyed and blitzed on Jag-Bombs.

I don't recognize any of these folks so it's a waste of your time and mine, Facebook. Most of the people you're recommending are either 14-years old or someone's aunt who has just landed awkwardly in the world of social networking.

So please, do us both a favor and just stop telling me who you think I know. If I know them and/or want to have anything to do with them, then I'll handle it. This isn't the first day of freshman year where you need to get everyone from your dorm floor at some sort of sorority mixer for them to make friends.

Don't get me wrong, Facebook, I appreciate the effort...but I'm all-set, thanks.

Refund Redux

As many of you are well-aware, we're smack-dab in the middle of tax season.

I'm sure many of my on-the-ball Faithful Readers have long since received, cashed and spent their refunds. Your fourth favorite blogger and mine—that's me—has yet to receive anything with any sort of monetary value, but I did learn earlier this week that I am, in fact, getting a refund.

The really sad part is that I am SUPER stoked about this refund because it will only mark the second-time in my entire tax-paying life that I've not had to pay-in to the government. That's right ladies and gents, yours truly has been getting taken to the proverbial cleaners by Uncle Sam and his cronies in the IRS for years!!

I don't think this is entirely my fault, however, because my “accountant” for all but the last three years was my aunt Linda. My aunt Linda may or may not stumble across this blog on her own someday and/or she may or may not hear about it from some member of the family who is secretly reading my works in the hopes that their name will pop up in a positive manner, either way I'm not overly concerned...because aunt Linda is the single-worst accountant of all-time and I don't care who knows it.

When I was in college and she was doing my taxes, I paid-in to both state and federal every year. What's that you ask, Faithful Reader? You want to know how in the blue hell a college kid whose lone source of income is a government-funded work-study program can be forced to pay-in?! Well by golly...I'd love to know too.

When I moved to Boston, I got a new accountant. Which is good, because had my aunt Linda been forced to handle forms from Iowa, Minnesota and Massachusetts all in the same year, I can only assume that instead of paying-in to the government; I'd have ended up a detainee in Guantánamo Bay for conspiracy to aid some sort of Brazilian tax extortion syndicate.

It wasn't even by choice that we got a new accountant really, it happened by aunt Linda's own incompetence. We got her our entire family's tax info by early February and assumed all was going to be hunky-dory (or as hunky-dory as it can get when you pay-in every year). Then the first part of April rolled around and despite numerous attempts to contact her, we'd heard no replies of any kind.

It was about this time that Pappy finally decided to fire his sister as both the family accountant and the accountant for his construction company and go with someone a little more reliable and a little less sucky at their job.

So amidst some random scrambling to get duplicate tax forms from all of my employers from the previous year and ranting and raving to the high heavens about how much this sucked and dealing with an odd, made-for-TV family rift once my aunt Linda finally re-emerged via cryptic text messages to my father in the waning hours before the tax deadline....somewhere amidst all of that hullabaloo, I got a freakin' refund!!

That's right, my first refund ever and it was a nice one! Instead of paying-in I received nearly $1,500 combined from federal and all three states. Apparently when you graduate college, that same year you earn some sort of “education credits,” which apparently boosted me up into the world of refunds.

Last year, however, I found out I'd checked some wrong boxes and I'd not only been claiming one or two, but rather...four.

Yeah, that's right...four.

Somehow, I'd been claiming four exemptions the entire time I worked out here. Think how much bigger my refund could have been the year before?!?!?! Well, with my claiming mishap, I ended up paying-in...again. The damage was $600, thus canceling out my stimulus check.

This year the dude in Iowa who did my taxes—I sent them home again because my Pappy offered to pay to get 'em done and who would pass that up—told my Pappy that I'm getting a refund and he relayed the message to me earlier this week, which resulted in my skipping up and down and clapping like some sort of Miley Cyrus groupie at a Hannah Montana TV taping.

So now I sit back and wait as the money should be deposited into my account some time in the next couple of days.

I am SUPER stoked. I have no idea how much it is, because when I called the peeps in Iowa to give them my bank info, the dude was out and the secretary didn't want to dig through anyone's paperwork. As such, I've got a surprise deposit coming in the next few days. Here's to hoping they realized how royally I've been screwed in the past and it's a pleasant little deposit of $45,000 to cover emotional damages.

But hey, let's be honest here, even if it's a couple of bucks, I'm pretty freakin' pumped...

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Inside the Actor's Studio

These are the questions that James Lipton asks each of his guests on the show "Inside the Actor's Studio.”

Given that I fully anticipate being world famous in the not-so-distant future, I can only assume Mr. Lipton will ask me to be on his show. It’ll probably happen after producers determine that I am the only person who can truly capture my awesomeness in the movie-version of my life, thus jump-starting my acting career.

Anyway, here is the future transcription of my appearance on “Inside the Actor’s Studio.”

What is your favorite word?

Hmmmm, my favorite word, you ask?! That’s a tough one, Mr. Lipton. I guess I’d have to say “kittywampus.” I don’t think I’ve actually used it more than a handful of times in my life…but I dig it. It’s got a nice ring to it.

Oh…oh…oh…oh…I just thought of another one. “Cocklebur!!” You know, like when you’re playing in your grove as a kid or running through the ditches or something in July when the weeds are all six feet high. Yeah, and you get all those cockleburs stuck to your pants, socks, shirt and everything else. Yeah…cocklebur, that’s a good word. Makes me giggle and reminisce.

What is your least favorite word?

My least favorite word…hands down is “cheeeekooonzzzzz.” If you’ve ever heard Ryan Gray utter this at the top of his lungs early on a Friday morning you’d understand why. The worst part is that he’s found a way to infiltrate this word into the lexicon of many-a-person, thus making the word unavoidable.

What turns you on?

A prescheduled day/night double-header with one-ticket admission for both games, yeah…that’s sweet.
Jennifer Aniston.
Brains…but not in like, a zombie-way, but in a smarts kinda-way.
A sense of humor.
Baseball talk. When Grace makes tuna noodle casserole….it’s soooooooo f’n good…and fatty as all hell, but I can eat an entire cake pan of that stuff in one sitting.
Super powers, preferably the ability to fly and/or be indestructible.
Great singing voices.
Anyone who thinks Colin Farrell is a douche-bag.
A great smile and/or laugh.
A distinct appreciation of Taco John’s potato olés.

What turns you off?

Carrot Top.
Spoiled folks who don’t know how to work.
Peanut butter.
The musical stylings of mid-‘90s pop/rock-band “Sugar Ray.”
Anyone possessed by a demon, like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters.
Peanut butter.
Getting kicked in the stones.
Boogers, ewwwww.
“King of the Hill.”
Peanut butter.
V8—tastes like tomato-laden death.
Garden gnomes, especially garden gnomes in places not harboring veggies…like a library!!

What sound do you love?

Grace’s laugh.

What sound do you hate?

The awful popping sounds my knees make. Sometimes they make the popping noises right before I collapse and/or am forced to reach out and grab things to avoid falling flat on my face. Not cool.

What is your favorite curse word?

My favorite curse word? Hands down…“fuck.” It is simply too versatile not to be my favorite.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

In no particular order…baseball player, writer/author, general manager of baseball team, professional wrestler and/or cage fighter, actor, screenwriter, blimp pilot, teacher, dude who works to promote baseball in the inner cities, advertising/marketing dude, Jennifer Aniston’s personal assistant and/or Taylor Swift groupie.

What profession would you not like to do?

Anything involving poo…

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

“…bout damn time you showed up. The rest of the guys are already at the field, grab your glove and let’s go…you’re up after Puckett and Mays.”

Monday, February 23, 2009

Channel-Surfin' USA

How can I have 70-some channels and yet I can almost never find anything worth watching?!

So there I was flipping channels this afternoon and I stumbled across a whole bunch of crap that made me lose faith in both television and mankind...

Tool Academy

So the first thing I encountered was something called Tool Academy on VH1 or MTV or something, you know one of those channels that doesn't actually play music videos anymore. Well basically the entire premise of this show is to bring a bunch of douche-bags of the grandest order, “super douches” if you will, together in one house and then we the viewer are supposed to sit back”hilarity” ensues?!

It took all of fourteen seconds for me to realize that I hated each and everyone of these guys with a fiery passion. These guys make all the frat boys I've ever encountered look like Cary Grant.

According to Jim

I realize that According to Jim has been around for awhile now, but I've never actually watched it before. A streak that—with the lone exception of the two minutes I wasted today—will remain primarily intact. Much like every other lame sitcom on television today it has a stubborn set-in-his-ways father figure with a disproportionately hot wife.

Note: Jim Belushi sucks.

Rock of Love

Rock of Love stars former Poison lead singer, Bret Michaels—who I mistakenly thought had used up his fifteen minutes about twenty years ago—and surprise, surprise he's “looking for true love” on a reality show. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. The only thing he appeared to be doing—in the four minutes we shared with one another—was taking various skanktastic-looking groupies onto his tour bus to hook up.

I'll give Michaels this much: “Every Rose Has It's Thorn” is an awesome song. It was also released over twenty years ago. Beyond the occasional live performance of that little ditty I see no merit to the continued existence of Bret Michaels. Especially after watching this abomination—for all of four minutes.

Family Feud

To be perfectly honest, I thought that Family Feud had gone the way of the dinosaur back when they tried bringing it back with Louie Anderson. Apparently, they gave it another whirl a few years back with Richard Karn—you may remember him as “Al” from Home Improvement—and apparently that didn't last real long either.

Well apparently it's back, yet again, with John O'Hurley as host. Perhaps you remember him as J. Peterman on Seinfeld...or perhaps you don't. No shame either way. Today I saw O'Hurley, who apparently lives his Seinfeld character 24/7, yucking it up with a bunch of celebrity impersonators. Yeah...yeah you read that right. Today's contestants were two teams of celebrity lookalikes. All of whom took O'Hurley's lead and refused to break character.

I think I threw up a little.

And that right there pretty much sums up my afternoon of attempting to watch syndicated television. I can't help but think a small part of me died this afternoon.

Luckily we're nearly at the time of day where Scrubs and Family Guy start popping up on channels all over the dial. Praise Jebus!

Friday, February 20, 2009

Too Much Jaw

My jaw clicks. It clicks a lot.

Well it locks and then it clicks.

So I guess in all actuality, my jaw locks a lot and—as a direct result—it clicks, a lot.

It’s not cool.

It started in May of last year. To be more precise it started at roughly 4pm on May 22, 2008. I was riding back to Mankato with Mike after watching the Twins lose a heartbreaker to the Texas Rangers by a score of 8-7 in ten innings.

I was in the passenger seat, ranting and raving about the game and my flight from Boston and the Eiffel Tower and my soon-to-be botched best man speech at Craiggers’ Wedding and cheesy hotdogs and any number of things really. I hadn’t slept in a couple of days; as is often the case before I fly home—be it May or December—I am usually coming off a week of sporadic sleep and overnight shifts.

That particular week I’d watched Jon Lester pitch a no-hitter at Fenway Park and then promptly left the stadium, wandered across the Charles River to MIT and worked an overnight shift with Margaret Willison, she of the Walla Walla, Washington, Willisons. Work an overnight with Margaret and when the wee-morning hours hit and she goes bat-shit crazy, she’ll bust out her genealogy and you’ll find out exactly what I’m talking about.

Anyway, the point is I hadn’t slept and I felt really off my rocker the way things were and then out of the blue, whilst I was talking (read: rambling like a madman) to Mike my jaw just locked. It was locked shut and I didn’t know what to do. Mike—who listens to people rant and rave all day at work as a banker—seemed pleased/relieved/comforted that I’d finally stopped my insufferable ass-rambling…until he realized I had neither passed out from sleep deprivation or the 14 beers I’d consumed at the Metrodome.

He asked the one universal question that men are allowed to ask each other without breaking dude-law.

“Dude, you okay?!”

To which I replied…“mmmmmmpppfffff….mmmppffff….”

After a few Jim Carrey-inspired facial contortions I got my jaw to pop and my mouth to open back up so that I could drunkenly/sleepily ramble on some more.

Mike—no longer a banker but serving as a practicing and licensed physician—promptly diagnosed me as having TMJ.

Now I had no idea what the hell TMJ was. So I replied “too much jaw?!”

Mike—now back to being a practicing and licensed dick—informed me that I was retarded and/or suffering from a mental deficiency of ostentatious proportions. As much as I appreciated this second diagnosis, I was more inclined to learn about this “TMJ” of which he was speaking. However, given that my jaw was working again coupled with 14 beers and multiple days sans sleep, I simply forgot all about it.

Since then my jaw has been doing the whole locking thing off-and-on, although much more frequently lately. In fact, it is very common in the mornings and at night when I’m in bed. Grace—in all her limitless patience and understanding—has come to a breaking point where she now goes into a full-body shimmy at the mere sound of bone-on-bone clicking and uses words and phrases such as: “grotesque,” “that sounds awful,” “sickening,” “ewwwwww,” “gross,” and “if you do it again, I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

Anywho, the whole point of yet another of my sleepless ramblings is that I’ve finally learned a little bit about TMJ.

Apparently Mike was correct and it does not stand for “too much jaw,” but rather “temporomandibular joint disorder.” Luckily it’s really no big deal. Apparently like 80 bajillion people* have it and its totally common. No need to get my jaw replaced or anything like that.

Good times…um, I guess that’s it?!


I should establish a no blogging rule when I haven’t slept…

(*this figure is all-kinds of bullshit)


Well, here I sit.

I’m on my couch at 5:24am staring out my window and watching the sky grow increasingly less dark.

This means two things.

One: Spring is near…yippie.

Two: I’ve not slept…boo.

Yeah, see I’m not a morning person. I’m not one of those dude’s who sees 5:00am on a normal basis. I don’t pop out of bed before the proverbial rooster crows. No, no…I don’t see 5:00am unless I’ve not slept at all.

Not sure what it was tonight, but tonight…er…last night was not a sleeping night. Why I don’t know, because at like 9:30 I was yawning and almost dozing off on this very couch.

One could say I was “dog-tired.”

Granted if ‘One’ were to do so, ‘One’ would then have to explain to me what the hell “dog-tired” really means. To be perfectly honest most dogs I know are quite spunky and energetic and hardly ever can be described as tired.

Although, I guess if you’re talking about an old dog, like a really old dog…then I could see it. I mean all those really old dogs wanna do is go die in a forest so that bright ferns may grow in their place.

Anyway, so yeah, at like 9:30 I was darn near ready to hit the hay and then what did my eyes behold upon The Superstation TBS…well it was one of the finest awful movies of my generation, “Varsity Blues.”

I think I’m going to blame my inability to snooze this evening on the entire cast of “Varsity Blues” and their ridiculous Texas accents.

Yes, that seems like a perfectly legitimate claim.

So James Van Der Beek, Jon Voight, Ali Larter, Paul Walker and Amy Smart…ESPECIALLY Amy Smart all ya’ll and your awful accents owe me one night of pleasant, sound slumber.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Better Late Than Never

I’ve given it a lot of thought lately and--you know what--I really like “Scrubs.”

Yeah, I like it a whole big lot.

Prior to Grace and I moving to Cambridge and getting “real cable,” I think I had seen maybe four episodes in my entire life. Not that I didn’t like the show, I just didn’t watch all that much TV and it wasn’t aired all that often on the $8 basic cable package.

Since we moved and got the aforementioned “real cable” I’ve probably seen about twenty episodes and I like the show more and more with each new episode I see.

Perhaps it’s because I have quite the active imagination, much like Doctor J.D. Dorian. Perhaps it is because I’ve had a mild crush on Sarah Chalke since her stint as replacement-Becky on “Roseanne” in the mid ‘90s. Maybe I just dig it because I think the music used on the show is all-kinds of bad-ass.

Whatever the case might be, it has rapidly ascended up my list of favorite shows and I am doing my best to devour as many episodes as possible. Unfortunately, since I am only catching random episodes in syndication on a dozen different channels, none of the episodes are in any sort of order for me to put a storyline together.

I guess I have two options.

I can either go out and purchase all of the seasons on DVD and watch them in order, thus satisfying my need for both order and logic.

Or I could go with the second option and continue watching episodes at random until I’ve seen the show in its entirety.

Either way…“Scrubs” totally rules and I‘m happy to have finally discovered all the awesomeness it possesses!!

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Change I Can Believe In

So a little over a week ago, First Lady Michelle Obama took some of her newest staffers out for lunch at Five Guys Burgers

Yeah, that’s right folks…Michelle Obama took her personal staff out for some sweet, sweet burger porn at one of the hottest burger chains on the right coast.

For those of my Faithful Readers who are unfamiliar, ‘Five Guys‘ has commonly been regarded as the east coast’s answer to California-staple ‘In-N-Out.’

What did Michelle order you ask? Did she try to make some sort of statement about fighting obesity by ordering a healthy salad or some sort of veggie-sandwich?!

Nope, because she’s so freakin’ awesome she went a completely different route. The “I’m going to order what I actually want to eat” route, also known as “the road less traveled” for someone so solidly in the public eye.

Michelle ordered a cheeseburger, fries and a Coke.

When I voted for Barack Obama, I was anticipating an administration that I could really get onboard with…clearly this is a sign that I’ve gotten my wish!

*cue Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” and patriotic montage*

Monday, February 16, 2009

I (heart) Ponytails

I am a big fan of ponytails. Not on myself, mind you, but rather on the ladies who often sport them in lieu of an intricate, time-consuming hairdo.

To be honest, I don’t exactly know what it is about the ponytail that makes it so endearing.

Perhaps it is the functionality. A woman can get out of bed and have her hair in a ponytail in about ten seconds and voila—barring some sort of elastic-band meltdown—she’s set and ready to roll.

There is a good chance it's simply because I've seen Jennifer Aniston rock the ponytail a bunch of times and she manages to pull it off whilst still looking all-kinds of gorgeous.

It could stem from watching softball games in my youth and being fascinated by the specialty helmets that had a hole cut in the back to allow for the ponytail to stick out and bounce around madly as the ladies dashed frantically around the bases.

Maybe—and this is a distinct possibility—it is because I am incredibly impatient and prefer to grab my coat and leave. The ponytail is hands-down the best way to ensure a rather hasty exit. No fuss, no muss. I mean come on, look at the process: brush, brush, elastic band, done…out the door. There’s something beautiful about that type of efficiency, I think.

There is also the mesmerizing quality that ponytails have to sway from side-to-side, ticking in time like a metronome as women walk or jog by. Sometimes at the gym, if you catch them at just the right time, you can see an entire pack of ponytails swaying in perfect harmony on a cluster of treadmills.

Anywho, although relatively pointless, I wanted to go ahead and make public my adulation for the ponytail.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Welcome to the List…

As my Faithful Readers, you’ve no doubt learned by now that I have many celebrity crushes. In fact, you may or may not have noticed that I have a category specifically dedicated to my many admirations toward the bevy of beauties on my list.

A few months back a made a new induction to the list when the lovely Zooey Deschanel ascended from “that cute chick in a bunch of movies” to a full-on, blog-worthy “celebrity crush.”

Well folks, today we’ve got another addition to the list. Much like with the Zooey induction back in December, today’s alluring addition is someone that has been floating around for years appearing in various movies and television shows, yet managing to drift under-the-radar just enough to avoid inclusion to my list.

That all changed today, however, when I was channel surfing to kill time before ESPN’s three-hour baseball extravaganza I stumbled upon “Not Another Teen Movie” on Comedy Central. For anyone who has yet to view NATM, I can’t say that I’d recommend it by any means, but it did make me giggle a little bit, so it’s not all bad.

Anyway, within the first ten seconds or so I realized that I recognized the gorgeous brunette in the leading role. The thing is, I couldn’t figure out where I’d seen her before so I went to my trusty pal, and realized that I’d recently spotted this dazzling debutante during my brief courtship with “Grey’s Anatomy.”

That’s right folks, I’m crushing on Dr. Lexie Grey herself, the one and only Ms. Chyler Leigh.

A quick perusal of Chyler’s résumé shows that she’s mostly worked on failed television shows, most of which I don’t recall, which would explain why she‘s been riding under-the-radar for so long.

I do, however, remember referring to her as the hottie on the failed Fox sitcom “That ‘80s Show” and as the super foxy lawyer on one of the six total episodes of “The Practice” I recall watching.

Anyway, long story short, I’d like to officially induct Chyler Leigh as my newest celebrity crush. I hope all of my Faithful Readers will congratulate her the next time they see her and be sure to pass along my affections in the off-chance that she hasn’t yet had the time to peruse my blog.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Valentine’s Day Blows

I know that most of the time the complaints about Valentine’s Day come from single folks who find themselves sick to their stomach watching couples prance about in their finest duds as they carry gargantuan bouquets of overpriced roses and big ole boxes of chocolates.

Well I’m a dude who is in a steady, long-term relationship and I am sooooooooo over V-Day it ain’t even funny.

Freshman year of college Grace and I did the whole annoying lovey-dovey couple thing. I got her roses, a big box of chocolates, some teddy bear thing and a gigantic oversized Valentine’s Day card. She was the envy of every single girl in her dorm, and some of the not-single ones as well.

When V-Day came around the next year we went out to eat and got each other presents. The year after that a nice meal and smaller presents because we’d just kicked out money for our anniversary, my birthday and Christmas.

It wasn’t long after that when we decided no gifts would work best and somewhere along the way the idea that a big ole fancy supper was ridiculous dawned us as well. So by the time we were seniors in college we decided that our Valentine’s outing would consist of chimichangas and margaritas…oh and we’d do it the Monday after Valentine’s Day, because the crowds were absolutely awful.

I want to make something clear about my disdain for Valentine’s Day. It’s not just the whole spending tons of money thing that bugs me about Valentine’s Day…although that is a big part of it…really, how many other times a year are you expected to get a freakin’ $6 card for someone you live with and see every day?!

The way I see it, there is no logical reason that I should feel more in love with Grace on some random day in the middle of February than I do on an idle Tuesday afternoon in August or on a Monday in May…it just makes no sense.

I mean seriously, card companies and flower shops shouldn’t have the power to make dudes feel like sucky boyfriends if they don’t overpay for stuff in the middle of winter…it’s just not right.

So to V-Day and all the people who pimp it so hardcore, I hope all ya’ll choke to death on some overpriced chocolate truffles!!

Shout-Outs: Joss Whedon

I just wanted to give a big ole shout-out to Mr. Joss Whedon, he of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel” fame.

In the interest of full-disclosure, I should make it perfectly clear that at no point was I ever a fan of either show. Honestly, I’ve only managed to make it through a handful of episodes of either show.

Despite my appreciation of campy vampire drama those shows just didn’t do it for me. That fact notwithstanding, I do want to make sure Joss gets his dues for his recent act of total awesomeness.

This dude took some time and penned a new series called “Dollhouse” for FOX that features one of his favorite muses and one of my celebrity crushes, Ms. Eliza Dushku.

Now Eliza isn’t exactly a top-notch actress and she’s by no means the hottest chica in Hollywood. To be honest, I don’t know if she’d make my top ten, but for some reason I think she’s all-kinds of bad-ass and would be a total blast to hang out with.

So to bring things full-circle, I want to give my shout-out to you Mr. Whedon for bringing Eliza back to the airwaves…granted, I can’t guarantee that I’ll ever watch this new show, but it’s good knowing I’ll see plenty of commercials featuring Eliza and for that, Joss, I am eternally grateful.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Joaquin Phoenix Can Suck It

Hey Joaquin Phoenix, knock it the hell off dude.

We get it. We ALL get it. You’re doing this whole “I’m leaving Hollywood” thing and yet you’re making appearances at movie premieres and on late-night talk shows. Hmmmm, weird how that works.

Also your brother-in-law, Casey Affleck, has been following you around like a puppy. Apparently he’s recording everything you’re doing as part of a documentary.

Oh…oh yeah, I almost forgot and you’re working on a rap album.

*sniff* *sniff*

Man, what is that?!

Ah yes, it’s the very distinct aroma of bullshit.

Dude, seriously, no one thinks you’re giving up acting and leaving Hollywood. To be perfectly honest I think you’re working on some weird version of “Punk’d” that has you tricking the world into thinking you’re going away (despite your lack of ‘going away’) and then you’ll pop up and be all “hey, check it out…I’m back. Gotcha!”

Riiiiiight…dude, I thought you rocked the hell outta Johnny Cash in “Walk the Line” and, honestly, that’s all I got.

I vaguely remember that you were in “Gladiator,” but I can’t remember for the life of me if you had starring role or if you were an extra or a tree or something, whatevs.

Long story short Mr. Phoenix…either make some movies or get out of my newspapers and off my TV shows because I’m not buying into your bullshit.

The McDonalds Embargo Begins

I’m like 90% sure that if I don’t start eating a little better I’m going to die much sooner than anticipated.

Granted, when you’re anticipating death by your thirtieth birthday what can you really expect, right?!

There are lots of days where--for no good reason other than laziness--I’ll forgo breakfast…and lunch…and sometimes supper.

When I don’t go foodless it seems--especially lately--that my only other option is devouring McDonalds in lieu of “real food.”

For example, here’s the way things have gone down this week…

Tuesday I ate McDonalds for lunch. A quarter-pounder with cheese, a double cheeseburger, fries and a Coke.

Wednesday I ate McDonalds for supper. A quarter-pounder with cheese, a double cheeseburger, fries and a Coke.

Thursday I ate McDonalds for supper--after Grace coerced me into doing so--and I ate a double cheeseburger, fries and an M&M McFlurry.

Friday I ate McDonalds for a drunken supper. A Big Mac, a double cheeseburger, fries, a Coke and an M&M McFlurry.

[Note: Friday’s supper came after a “lunch” of 23 fun-size Snickers bars.]

So I’m making it official, as of today Friday February 13, 2009, I am establishing a McDonalds embargo. This is in the same boat as the Burger King embargo that I established last April and have yet to fall back on.

I cannot guarantee that I’ll be as strong in my resistance to the golden-arched menace…but I’m sure as hell gonna try.

On a related note, if you’ve yet to receive an official ticket to my rapidly approaching wake and subsequent funeral, please let me know and I’ll get you hooked up.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Forty Years of Awesomeness

Forty years ago today, on February 11, 1969, Jebus decided to bless each and every one of us when he used his incredible powers and sent an angelic figure to earth to occupy the body of a human.

The vessel chosen to house that angel belongs to the one and only, Jennifer Joanna Aniston.

As my Faithful Readers, you may or may not have noticed that I’m somewhat of a Jennifer Aniston enthusiast.

Okay, perhaps “enthusiast” isn’t the right word.

Some would call me a “fan,” however, that just doesn’t seem powerful enough. I’ve heard the word “stalker” brandied about…yet something about that just doesn’t sit right with me (or my legal team).

Perhaps the proper way to define my affinity for Ms. Aniston would be to refer to me as an “appreciative observer” or something along those lines.

I mean, seriously, it’s a phrase that fits in most situations:

- I am always appreciative whilst observing her work as Rachel Green on “Friends.”
- I am always appreciative when observing her multi-faceted cinematic performances.
- I am always appreciative when observe that her lovely face has appeared on another magazine cover.
- I am always appreciative when I’m observing and/or stealing things from her garbage.
- I’m always appreciative when I observe her from the bushes outside her home.
- I’m always appreciative when I observe her calling off her bodyguards from pummeling me to death.

So yeah, I think “appreciative observer” fits.

On that note, I want to wish a very jubilant happy birthday to my lovely, to my schmoopy, to my flaxen-haired beauty, to my sweet-pea, to the single foxiest 40-year old of all-time…Jennifer Aniston. Happy Birthday, Kiddo.

(Note: If Jennifer or any members of her legal team read this, I’d be very appreciative if all ya’ll would remove at least one of the restraining orders…)

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Shout-Outs: Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger

So apparently the dude who landed the plane in the Hudson River and saved a butt-load of people is more than just a national hero, he’s also the model library patron!

That’s right folks, Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger, who logically could have blown off every normal duty in his life following last month’s emergency landing and lived the hero’s life; instead decided to give his local library a call in the days following the crash, because a book he’d checked out was in the plane when it went down.

The best part?

He didn’t play the “I’m Sully f’n Sullenberger” card…no, no…he simply asked for an extension on the loan and a potential waiver for his overdue fines. That’s right folks, the same dude who pretty much has carte blanche to do whatever the hell he wants for the remainder of his fifteen minutes asked for an extension and asked for a waiver of his late fees.

For anyone who has never worked in a library that may not seem like a really big deal, but trust me it is. We have to deal with some of the most asinine arguments over library fines and missing books every day and not a gol-darned one of the excuses we get ever involves the phrase “yeah, I lost my book when I made an emergency landing of an airplane on the Hudson River and saved 150 lives.”

No, no…we get stuff like the following:

Reason: “…but I was out of town.”
Response: Big f’n whoop kid, the book was due. You got to MIT, but you can’t figure out to return it before you leave? You’re just pissing your tuition money away here, aren’t you, Dummy?!

Reason: “…I didn’t get the courtesy email telling me it was due.”
Response: How is that my problem? We told you when it was due. You can check the due date online. You were offered a receipt with the due date at checkout. If you still required an email there’s a pretty good chance your comprehension rate is so low the book was doing you no good anyway.

Reason: “…you’re just trying to make money off of me.”
Response: Yeah, that’s right, Poindexter, we’re really fattening up on the five nickels you owe us. In fact, this little fee right here should be enough to fix the leaky roof. I hope you’re late with something again soon, I’d really like a new pair of cleats for softball season…jerk!

So today, I give major props to you, Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger. Not for that whole life-saving, plane-landing thing…but for the incredible respect and courtesy you showed to your local library. Swing by MIT and I’ll buy you a beer and let you steal whatever you want from our reference collection, because you’ve earned it, buddy!

Monday, February 09, 2009

I Suck at Mornings

I spent the first four minutes after opening my eyes this morning trying to weigh the pros and cons of compression shorts versus boxer briefs.

Why you ask, Faithful Reader?!

Beats me…but this is how my brain works, especially in the first few waking moments of my day.

Following my mental underwear dilemma, I rolled over, hiked up the blankets and dozed off again until my alarm went off for a second time. I reached over and turned it off and spent a few minutes staring at my shoes.

Not thinking about anything, mind you.

Just staring.

Then I decided I wasn’t going to the gym today. Why?! Because I was sleepy and, as such, assumed that I‘d remain sleepy all-day.

A couple of minutes later I realized that was just really stupid logic and I should totally going to the gym.

Unfortunately, a few short minutes later when I started to get out of bed I decided that not only did I not want to go to the gym, I also didn’t want to get out of my warm, comfy bed…but I didn’t want to get out of it, ever. No, no…I would live in the bed for the remainder of my days and turn it into some sort of mini-ecosystem.

Somewhere in the planning stage of my sustainable ecosystem, I fell back asleep.

Well, some time has passed and I’ve since peeled myself out of the blanket-laden cocoon and decided that it would be wise to go to the gym today. You know, because since I’m not in my bed anymore I’m not sleepy or of the mindset that I can live in my bed. I mean really…how did I forget about going poo and/or what would I do for food if/when Grace eventually leaves me for being a bed-dwelling troll?!

I’ve also decided I shouldn’t be allowed to make any sort of decision within the first half-hour or so of regaining consciousness…because I’m clearly borderline brain dead.

Sunday, February 08, 2009


Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus are singing…together.


I’m watching the GRAMMYs and for some ungodly reason the producers thought it’d be a good idea to put Taylor Swift and her angelic voice in a duet with Miley Cyrus.

Yeah, I know…right?!

See, I’ll admit to having a Miley Cyrus song on my iPod. Yeah…I’m man enough to admit that I have--on occasion--rocked out (as much as one can) to “7 Things I Hate About You.” The thing is, Miley Cyrus only sounds good when she’s doing her own song and she’s doing it all by her lonesome. You see, when she’s on her own you don’t have any straight-up comparison so her squeaky, screaming thing sorta works.

You know what doesn’t work? A duet with Taylor Swift.

You see Taylor Swift--in addition to being like 10,000 times hotter than a bushel of habaneros--is an incredible singer. She has a beautiful voice that, when put in a duet, makes Miley Cyrus sound like the death squalls of a grocery bag full of kittens in a microwave.

Needless to say, not so pretty.

So, to whomever made the decision to pair these gals up--shame on you.

I mean honestly, if I were Miley Cyrus I’d probably go home and ask Billy Ray to forcibly remove my voice box and bury it in the same place he hid that early ‘90s mullet. Also if I were Taylor Swift, I’d probably be so disenfranchised with the concept of duets that I’d never sing on stage with anyone again, except for Steve Perry of course.

[Note: If I were Taylor Swift, I’d also wander to Boston and find myself a displaced country boy working in a collegiate library and make an inordinate number of sexually-charged comments toward him in front of his co-workers in an effort to lionize him forever.]

Saturday, February 07, 2009

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Happy Camper

I work with some of the most awesome people in the world.

Despite looming tension regarding the future of our collective employment statuses that may or may not be revealed at a meeting this afternoon; coupled with a bunch of oddly cryptic closed-door meetings…everyone is still laughing and joking around and having a great time, whilst still kicking ass at our jobs.

MIT knew what they were doing when they assembled this veritable dream team of library awesomeness.

Eat it, Harvard!

Note: unless of course we find out today that I’m getting canned, in which case I’ve always respected and admired the way your university is run and I hope to be a viable part of the Harvard library system…

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Punch ‘em in the Face

So I just booked a ticket on Midwest Airlines. I was all excited because this ticket is for what is becoming an annual pilgrimage to the frigid Midwest for our fantasy baseball draft and—since everyone is incessant about getting hitched—a little bachelor party action. In addition, I get to see my family and go to the Twins final home opener in the Metrodome!! All-in-all it makes for a pretty bad-ass trip.

I’ve flown on Midwest airlines one other time, last year’s Draft/Bachelor Party/Family/Twins Game weekend. It was a pretty nice flight on a rather tiny airline. The highlight was that they handed out warm chocolate chip cookies. The downfall was that as a rather tiny airline, they seem to have a lot of issues.

On my flight to Minneapolis last year, they had to call the plane back to the gate for my connecting flight in Milwaukee to let like fifteen of us on a flight that was already leaving the gate because they were completely unaware that so many of the people on my Boston to Milwaukee flight were connecting to Minneapolis. “COMPLETELY UNAWARE” they say to me. Gotta be honest, that scares me just a little bit. If you’re completely unaware that half the passengers on your plane pulling away from the gate aren’t onboard yet, because they’re on another of your airline’s flights…what else aren’t you aware of?! Do I even want to know?!

Then on the way back to Boston, they didn’t know where their plane was that was supposed to connect us from Milwaukee to Boston. That’s right…they said, “we don’t know where the airplane is.” Those were their exact words. Eventually they discovered the plane, it was somewhere over the Rockies and we all had to hold up until it got there.

I got stranded in the Milwaukee airport for nearly six hours. Do you know what six hours in the Milwaukee airport is like?! Imagine being at some relative’s place where there is nothing to do but sit and stare out the window or re-read the book you’ve already finished. But that’s not all; you’re surrounded by a bunch of airport groupies at the lone eatery/bar in the airport. They’re all giggling like crazy at re-runs of “America’s Funniest Home Videos” from the early ‘90s.

Well…Midwest has wronged me once more. I just booked the flight and when they emailed me my itinerary it wasn’t the same as what I’d booked. No, no…they’d screwed up my departure time from Boston. Instead of leaving on the 11:20am to Milwaukee with a half-hour layover…I’m now leaving on the 6:55am to Milwaukee with a nearly FIVE-HOUR layover.

To change the reservation now would cost me another $100 and I can’t afford that, I could barely afford the ticket itself, let alone the cost of modifying it.

Ugh…well, I guess I better pack a couple of extra books and charge up the iPod to drown out the incessant laughter from the airport groupies.

…that or I could start drinking when I land at 8:30?! Who knows, maybe by the time I get on my plane to Minneapolis at 1:20 in the PM, I’ll be an airport groupie too?!

Power Bars

I don’t get why they put different “flavors” on the Power Bar wrappers, because as far as I can tell they’re all the same flavor…“chewy, disgusting grossness.”

Unfortunately, I can’t bitch and moan too much because they sorta work.

I eat ‘em and I get all energized from the protein and they take away my immediate desire to run out and get a double-cheeseburger with cheese-fries, because that sticky-goop in my belly sorta fills me up.

…you win this round, Power Bar!!

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Me Likey Chimichanga...

I am craving some really good Mexican food.

Boston--as I’ve thus far discovered--has no good Mexican food.

In fact two of the top six rated “Mexican restaurants” on are Anna's Taqueria…which tastes a lot like I imagine dog poo would taste if mixed with rice and thrown inside a gross, chewy tortilla.

If anyone knows of any seriously good Mexican food in the greater Boston metro area (read: I can get there via the subway and/or a bus route) please let me know.

Until that happens, I’ll just sit here longing to go to Mazatlan when I get back to Mankato in April and/or Taco John‘s which--sadly enough--is better than the lion’s share of Mexican food I’ve sampled at “real restaurants” here in Boston.


…Gravey wants a chimichanga.


Stuff in the Snow

So yesterday it was like 50 degrees or something and I was gallivanting about town in a sweatshirt. Apparently it was just wishful thinking to think that spring had sprung in February because today it started snowing at like nine in the AM and as of nine the PM, it has yet to stop.

As a result of this all-day snow-a-thon there is a plethora of random objects covered in snow. Here is a quick list of totally random things I found covered in snow on my commute home…

One shoe, Nike…

…’twas blue with a white Nike swoosh. It was mucho bad-ass and had it been there with a partner, I may have swiped it, b/c it was pretty sweet and appeared big enough to fit my gargantuan monkey-feet.

One coat, black…

…this was hanging out in the parking lot by campus. You’d think someone would want to hang onto their coat when it’s all (east coast) cold and (east coast) snowy…I guess not?!

One baby carriage, empty (thank Jebus)…

…so this was just sorta hanging out in the street. I can’t even imagine the logic behind abandoning your baby carriage…but in the middle of the street, what the heck?! Either way I moved it to the sidewalk, you know…so no one would plow into it with their Toyota.

One empty vodka bottle., empty (unfortunately)…

…yeah, I’m just f’n with you. I refuse to drink abandoned street vodka…ever again?!

One vase, no flowers…

…stuck in the side of a snow-bank, in a parking lot. Who knows?!

One big ole pile of doggy poo (ewwwwww)…

…sadly I only noticed this after some other dude stepped in it. It was NOT pretty. He was like sprinting across the street or something and hit the sidewalk and then BAM just sorta stopped. By the time I crossed the street I’d figured out why because he was trying to wipe his shoe on the chain-link fence…gross!

One lamp (um…lampy?!)…

…not much to say here, it’s a lamp covered in snow. I would NOT recommend plugging it in.

One wooden dresser, wood…

…I think some of our neighbors just left, because there is a dresser outside by my apartment. That’s not normal. I swear. Nightstands, sure…that’s pretty normal. Dressers, not so normal.

Monday, February 02, 2009

Laundry Day

I came to a very profound decision this afternoon…I freakin’ hate laundry day.

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t enjoy doing my laundry and--you know--actually having clean clothes. No, no those are two things that I find quite delightful.

What’s unfortunate is that ever since Grace and I moved to Cambridge, doing laundry has become a huge pain in the ass.

Now I’ll admit, in the past I’ve been completely spoiled when it comes to laundry.

In my college dorms there was a laundry room just three floors down from me. In my first apartment there was a laundry room on the top floor. When Grace and I moved in with Mike and Alicia they had a laundry room in their basement. When Grace and I moved to Southie we lived directly above a laundromat.

…then we moved to Cambridge.

The nearest laundromat is like half-a-mile away. I fully realize that half-a-mile isn’t really the far, but you’ve got to take into account that I’m generally pushing one of those granny grocery carts full of clothes and a big ole jug of laundry detergent. A granny cart in-and-of itself ain’t all that bad, but our granny cart kinda blows.

Our granny cart doesn’t roll well when the sidewalks are snowy (as they were today) and it doesn‘t roll well unless the sidewalks are totally smooth (as almost none of them are). The cart is also a little on the short-side. The handle comes up to just below my hips. This means I spend the entire time bent over like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

Although I’m sure it is quite amusing to all of the folks I scuffle past when they watch a 6’3” dude all hunched over his granny cart full of dirty socks and undies…it sure as heck ain’t funny to me.

Long story short…laundry day sucks.

Sunday, February 01, 2009

People I May Heinously Murder (vol. 2)

Arnel Pineda, your life is in imminent danger.

I don’t know who gave you permission to slip into a pair of leather pants and step on stage with Journey, but it sure-as-hell wasn’t the collective sect known as the “Journeymen.”

The Journeymen are those of us who can be found rocking out to our Journey box-sets at any minute of any hour of any day. We are a group that will always drunkenly play every Journey song on a bar’s jukebox, sometimes more than once. We are the folks that can always be heard demanding that a DJ play “Don’t Stop Believin’” or “Open Arms” or “Lights” or “Separate Ways” at every wedding reception, prom, karaoke night, street dance and/or bar mitzvah we’ve ever attended.

We, Arnel Pineda, are not happy with you. We love Steve Perry’s voice. We love Steve Perry’s stage presence. We simply love Steve Perry.

And you, Arnel Pineda, are not Steve Perry. As a result, we do not like you. Don’t take it personally Arnel…we didn’t like Steve Augeri either and we sure as hell had no patience for Jeff Scott Soto.

I realize it’s probably not fair to judge every Steve Perry-wannabe who takes over the reigns of Journey, especially since Neal Schon, Jonathan Cain and Ross Valory are the only dudes remaining from the Journey we all know and love, but come on…Journey without Steve Perry just ain’t Journey.

Where is this rant coming from you may ask?!

Well the fine folks at NBC lined up faux-Journey to bastardize perform “Don’t Stop Believin’” during the Super Bowl pregame show. Upon listening to Pineda butcher the most downloaded song in the history of iTunes…I flipped.

Unfortunately, Grace had to listen to me rant and rave for nearly half-an-hour about what a horrendous pooper “not-Steve Perry” had just left steaming on the stage.

So now I have two reasons to end your life, Pineda. Not only are you not fit to comb Perry’s luscious locks--let alone “sing” his songs--but you’ve forced Grace to listen to another of my ludicrous rants.

Watch your back Pineda…