Monday, March 29, 2010

Curse of the Friendly Dude

I’m a friendly dude.

I look like a friendly dude. I sound like a friendly dude. I am, in fact, a friendly dude.

This is a curse.

As any of my Faithful Readers can tell you, being a friendly dude has been a pox upon me for years.

Crazies come into the library, see a friendly—if not quasi-pleasant-looking—dude behind the circulation desk and they assume they can talk to me about whatever tickles their proverbial fancy until they’re blue in the face.

All too often, they are right.

I’m a friendly dude. Most of the time I let these whack-jobs and asshats ramble on and on and on about whatever boring, pointless, and/or outright bullshit story comes into their warped little heads.

I’ve heard one patron—who I hate with the fiery passion of a thousand suns—rant to me about how he walked right up to his boss one day and told him to “go fuck himself with a rusty screwdriver.”

As eloquent as all that was, it turned into a forty-five minute bitch session with this ass-clown rambling on about how he hated his job and wanted to quit and how he thought the boss was fooling around with his wife.

Granted, the dude is full of complete and utter bullshit, because his job changed about five times during the conversation from “lawyer” to “accountant” to “banker.” Apparently Cap’n Crazypants just wanted to share the crazy and I—being a friendly dude (who was conveniently trapped behind a circ desk)—was the lucky recipient.

This type of thing is common. In fact, it’s way too common.

I draw in crazies no matter where I go or what I’m doing.

I get half a dozen of these freaks every week at work and more randomly finding me on the streets or in restaurants or grocery stores. I’m a crazy magnet.

Saturday morning, whilst in the security line at the airport, I managed to draw some loon who wanted to talk about the health care hoopla that’s taken the nation by storm.

If you drop by “Blank Stares and Blank Pages” with any frequency, you know that I don’t really follow a) politics or b) the news.

As such, I really didn’t have any idea what this guy was talking about and I made that pretty clear right away, hoping that’d be the end of our interaction.

It was not.

This toolbox didn’t have any desire in legitimate discourse with me regarding the health care thingity-thing…he simply wanted to talk at someone.

As a friendly dude stuck in a line that I couldn’t logically jump out of without missing my flight, I had to sit there and listen to him go off on an anti-Obama tirade. He referred to Obama as the antichrist, Hitler, and—in some odd context I didn’t understand—Molly Ringwald. Perhaps he was implying Obama was merely a flash in the pan whose political star would burn out sooner than anyone could anticipate? Who knows, I sure as hell wasn’t paying attention.

My lack of attentiveness, however, wasn’t enough to detour health care dude. He had an opinion dammit and someone—anyone—needed to hear it.

So he ranted at me for about twenty minutes—at like five in the freakin’ morning—about health care and burnt-out ‘80s movie stars and death panels. The entire time I didn’t get in a word edgewise, not that I’d have had much to add to the conversation.

When he was finally done speaking (or would it be preaching?) he asked me what I thought about all that.

I told him that I’m a pretty healthy dude and I don’t really ever get sick. I also told him I don’t really follow the news or politics.

He replied: “fuckin’ hippy.

He then walked away.

Some days I contemplate getting one of those crazy-ass face tattoos like Mike Tyson got hooked up with, just to make me look a little less friendly.

That or I’m just going to start tazering people the second they approach me.

One or the other.

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Traveling is Hard

When I fly, it is very common that I’ll leave Boston in the wee morning hours in an attempt to stretch out my time on the other end of the trip.

Generally it is totally worth it to leave Boston before 6am if it means I’ll be back in the ole Midwest somewhere around 8 or 8:30am. It just makes good sense.

If I wait to leave until a reasonable hour, say 8 or 9am, it’ll be damn near noon before I get back that way.

Anyway, it’s early. I’m pounding this out on the airplane at 5:37am and I’ve already been up for like two and a half hours.

Being that it’s so early taxis were a little hard to come by this morning.

Central Square generally quiets down for the evening somewhere around two or three in the morning and—being that it’s Spring Break—Cambridge is pretty dead right now anyway.

That having been said, cabs are hard to hunt down.

As such, I’m pretty much their bitch when it comes to the fare.

This was never more evident than Saturday morning when my cab ride to the airport—which is normally a $20-$25 expenditure—turned into a $40 clusterfuck.

…before tip.

If that weren’t enough of a pain in the ass, I also got to listen to some serious pre-dawn taxi drama.

The entire trip there was a group of cabbies screaming over the CB radio at each other. It ended with what I’m assuming was their boss suddenly coming on the airwaves and going on a psychotic rant about one of the dude’s attitude and overall demeanor.

He then proceeded to fire him.

Over the radio, with everyone listening.

This was all done with one long, breathless rant that sounded something like this: “I don’t care who hears it, I’ll say it loud over the radio. I want everyone to hear it! I hate you. You’re a shitty man with a shitty attitude. You’ll never work for me again. You’re fired. You’re fried.”

To this my cabbie—who was fare-raping me—broke in with a mini-rant of his own, talking about how the recently-fired cabbie was, in fact, a shitty man with a shitty attitude.

All of this took place at roughly 4:30 in the morning. Pre caffeine.

Traveling is hard.


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Sunday, March 28, 2010

Cheeseburger Chronicles #040


Fridays are just good burger days.

There’s really no denying it, is there?! It seems that come lunch time every Friday, all I wanna do is run out and find a big ole greasy burger and shove it in my face.

Perhaps this is merely an example of how I approach Andrew Miller’s “Pimp Your Friday” philosophy or perhaps it is because I’m a burger-lovin’ fatty who never packs a lunch?!

Either way, Friday is burger day.

This Friday was no exception to the rule, especially after my Thursday night fantasy baseball draft went roughly twice as long as I’d anticipated and threw off my agenda for the evening.

As a result, I was pretty tired and worthless on Friday. Nothing cures tired and worthless quite like a cheeseburger.

Without any further ado, here is the latest entry:

Cheeseburger #040


What: Cheeseburger

Where: Four Burgers

When: March 26, 2010

How (was it): Unfortunately, I’ve got to admit that this was—without a doubt—the worst burger I have ever had at Four Burgers.

Now don’t think for a second that this implies it was an awful burger or something. The burger itself was still pretty good and I wouldn’t say no if offered an identical, meaty clone.

It was a tad overcooked and (note: this is just me being anal) the cheese wasn’t melted.

I’ve always had a serious issue with cheeseburgers that don’t have melted cheese. Something about the concept of a rigid slice of cheese on a burger really bugs me.

McDonald’s—at some point in the early 2000s—started churning out burgers with unmelted cheese and I always found it incredibly unnerving.

If it ain’t melted, it’s not a cheeseburger, it’s a burger with a slice of cheese on top of it. The cheese needs to be melted so that it becomes an integral part of the burger’s architecture.

…anyway, I’ve clearly gone off on a tangent.

The burger was good, but not great. Four Burgers has been great roughly 98.3% of the times I’ve eaten there, so to get a good burger was a little disappointing.

In the grand scheme of things, however, this was still probably one of the top 10-15 burgers I’ve had all year. Which isn’t saying much for most of the crap I’ve been shoving in my face.


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Thursday, March 25, 2010

No Words Necessary

Sometimes when traversing the borderless wonderland that is the interwebs, we stumble upon something so awesome, so bad-ass, so perfect that no words are necessary.

This is one of those things:


Hat-tip to The Peter Norman for this one…


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Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Cheeseburger Chronicles #039


In my defense, I had no original intentions of getting a burger today.

To be perfectly honest I was supposed to beating what Grace had so eloquently described as “something with peppers and stuff.”

Instead my good friend, The Peter Norman (heretofore known as TPN) sent me a Facebook message indicating a desire for dead cow at a popular Cambridge burger joint known as Mr. Bartley’s.

What ensued was another notch on my burger belt, the intake of thousands of calories, the use of political figures’ names in jest, TPN losing his Bartley’s virginity, and an overwhelming desire to snap the neckbone of half a dozen frat guys.

All of this was followed by some beers (most of the low calorie variety to offset the meal), some Nerf guns, and plenty of helpful zombie killing tips.

Additionally, there was a brief display of Grace’s education system-fueled rage. All-in-all, good times were had by all.

Here be the burger rundown…

Cheeseburger #039


What: “The Health Care Bill” (toppings include: BBQ sauce, grilled onions & bacon)

Where: Mr. Bartley’s in Harvard Square

When: March 23, 2010

How (was it): It was pretty solid.

As is often the case with Bartley’s burgers, the big draw is the toppings more than the burger itself.

It was a perfectly acceptable patty cooked to a perfect medium—unlike TPN’s drastically more bloody “medium”—and it was hot and juicy and meshed great.

That’s just how Mr. Bartley’s works, the focus is on the toppings and not the burger itself. The patty is good. The toppings are great.

Good BBQ sauce. Not too sweet. Not too tangy. Just right. It mixed perfectly with the grilled onions, which—as you can see from the all-too-blurry photo—were overflowing from the burger.

Toss in bacon and you’ve got yourself a winner.


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Monday, March 22, 2010

Yahoo! Answers #002

Hey y’all, I’m back with another quasi-daily dose of Yahoo! Answers for your reading/mocking enjoyment.

Today’s entry comes from “Kim16757” who is obviously a very classy gal just lookin’ for love.


Personally, I’m a little confused by the timeline in question here.

Apparently she has been “messin’ around with this guy” for an indeterminable amount of time.

As such, I’m a little confused as to why he’s just NOW getting a picture of her?

Every teenager I’ve ever seen (note: it’s pretty safe to assume she’s a teenager here because, well…duh) has their phone out taking pictures of everything, so I’m confused as to why she’d have to physically hand him a picture—as is implied by the phrase “gave him a pic” as opposed to the more modern colloquialism “sent him a pic.”

Let’s be honest, who under the age of 50 is still handling real, tangible photos and not just JPGs? Sketchy? I think so…

Finally, Kim16757 throws me for a loop with her commentary regarding a girlfriend?! Seriously, where does that come from?!

I think to adequately answer her question—which I think is simply “why hasn’t he texted me?”—I’d need some serious back-story on this potential girlfriend situation.

I’d hate to think that a wordsmith who has such an eloquent way with the written word would be “the other gal” in this scenario. It’d be just heartbreaking.

What do you think, my Faithful Readers?!



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Cheeseburger Chronicles #038


I feel like all of those crazy-ass little flying monkey people in the “Wizard of Oz.”

Now believe me, this isn’t drink or drug induced, it is merely a result of the new found freedom I’ve been granted thanks to an awful lunch-time visit to Wendy’s last Friday.

As you’ve read about in my two previous burger encounters, I’ve grown quite fond of the new Bacon and Blue burger at Wendy’s, despite the fact that it’s—you know—Wendy’s.

Luckily, I had a bad go’round with the B&B last Friday and I can’t help but feel as though the burger’s stranglehold on me has loosened.

Perhaps a Wendy’s Embargo won’t be necessary…yet.

Cheeseburger #038


What: Wendy’s Bacon and Blue Burger

Where: Ghetto Wendy’s in Central Square

When: March 19, 2010

How (was it): Good, not great.

The worst thing a dude can do is swing by the Ghetto Wendy’s during the lunch rush. The place is packed. The service is awful. The food is even worse.

I did just that on Friday, I had intended to go to Four Burgers for a “classy burger” but—as is all-too-often the case at lunch time—their line was nearly to the door and I didn’t have that kind of time to spare.

So I sauntered back to Wendy’s with a pretty good understanding that this would likely be the end of my unblemished love affair with the Bacon and Blue burger.

It was just that.

The sauce, sautéed onions, bacon and blue cheese were still rockin’…but the burger itself was disgustingly greasy. It was gross to hold it and it was seeping through the wrapper. Just gross.

The lettuce and tomato were both of the soggy/limp/dead/disgusting variety and despite picking them off the burger, their nasty-assed awfulness lingered.

I left Wendy’s moderately-dejected, knowing that I’d never again feel that same magical feeling for the Bacon and Blue burger, but I also had the freedom of a man who no longer felt chained one burger.

I am once again free to roam the earth devouring any hunk of dead cow I please.

Let freedom ring!


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Cheeseburger Chronicles #037


My Faithful Readers, you should probably know something about me.

I’m a man who likes cheeseburgers.

What’s that? You already knew that about me?! Oh…weird.

Well, additionally, I’m also a man who has a horrible, horrible tendency to keep going back to something time and time again once I’ve had a great experience with it. This will continue until I have a bad experience, thus breaking the spell.

It is because of this awful tendency that I had to institute embargos on McDonalds and Burger King (FYI: the two year anniversary is Wednesday).

It’s because of this tendency that I’ve had weeks where I eat the same thing for lunch five or six days in a row.

It’s because of this tendency that I returned to Wendy’s for yet another Bacon and Blue burger last Tuesday night.

Cheeseburger #037


What: Wendy’s Bacon and Blue Burger

Where: Ghetto Wendy’s in Central Square

When: March 16, 2010

How (was it): Despite my best wishes that it’d be awful and greasy and I could return to a life where—like the rest of the population—I have no desire to eat at Wendy’s on a regular basis, let alone the super ghetto Wendy’s.

Alas, that was not to be the case.

Once again, the burger was amazing.

I’m not a big bleu cheese guy, but these cats pile on the sautéed onions, their fancy-assed sauce, the bacon, and all the other toppings and it is like the perfect ingredient to make all of that other good shizzle just sorta come together in a big ole flavor ‘splosion…in my face!

My God, I hope the next one is awful, or it might be time to establish a Wendy’s Embargo.





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Thursday, March 18, 2010

Yahoo! Answers #001

Yahoo! Answers is an amazing website.

Not really in a good way, mind you, but more in the "holy crap, come check out what these dumb teenagers are 'writing'" kind of way.

As such, I’ve decided to create a quasi-regular series where I post a question taken directly from one of the many future custodial engineers and/or “professional dancers” who frequent these websites.

Now, most of these questions will undoubtedly be pulled from the “Singles and Dating” section, if for no better reason than it gives us the best examples that teenagers can neither spell, punctuate, or using anything even remotely close to a complete sentence.

I’d like to make a stab at instant messaging here, but I’m fairly sure that would date me a bit. I mentioned IMing to some freshmen the other day in the library and they looked at me like I’d smoked all the crack...all of it.

Apparently instant messaging has gone the way of the dinosaur, trans fats, and the Cobra Kai Dojo.

It now seems that most children come out of the womb texting on a Blackberry equipped with one of those fancy slide-out QWERTY keyboards.

Well-played young-ins, well-played indeed.

Anyway, I appear to have gone off on sort of sleepless tangent?! Ah yes…Yahoo Answers.

I’ll be posting a “question” from Yahoo Answers and looking to you, my Faithful Readers to supply the perfect answer.

Now I’m warning you in advance, many of these “questions” are merely children rambling about pix or luv or baby-mamas and there appears to be no actual question involved.

I’ll still be looking for an answer, response, or perhaps some sort of literal translation (ooooh exciting!) from some/any/all y’all…

With that said, here’s your inaugural Quasi-Daily Dose of Yahoo! Answers…



Here be the link, just in case the screenshot is too fuzzy to read.

Let’s hear whatcha gotsta say y’all…


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Wednesday, March 17, 2010

What Your Library Can (and Cannot) Do For You



I want to make something clear right now.

There is a very real difference between “perceived” and “actual” technological abilities of the folks sitting behind the desk at a library.

I wrote about one such instance last weekend, but today I was given another inside look at this perplexing dichotomy.

Some dude called into the library this evening asking for printing help.

I operated under the assumption he was referring to printing on campus—more notably, in the Libraries—this would seem a logical assumption given that he was calling, well, the library.

Being the awesome library dude that I am—no, seriously…I rock—I attempted to help him through his problem.

Mystified in Manchester: “Hi, I’m having some issues with a printer.”
Caring in Cambridge: “Okay, cool. What’s the issue?”
Mystified in Manchester: “Well, it’s not printing.”
Caring in Cambridge: “I guess that is a problem…hahahaha.”

This was met with complete and utter silence. I assumed that the lameness of my “joke” had either led to him deciding to end his own life via seppuku and/or he simply had a broken funny bone and didn’t pick up on the blatant hilarity that had just ensued.

Caring in Cambridge: “Huh…okay then…so can you tell me more about what’s wrong?”
Mystified in Manchester: “Sure. I want to print, but nothing will print.”
Caring in Cambridge: “Right. Could you be just a little more specific? Where are you printing from? What are you trying to print? Which printer are you sending it to? That type of thing.”
Mystified in Manchester: “Can you just log in and fix it?”
Caring in Cambridge: “I don’t know what you mean…”
Mystified in Manchester: “Like if I give you my IP address, can you log in and fix it?”

Let’s be honest folks, we can do a lot of things here at the library. We can help you with research, we can get you hooked up with books you thought you’d never get your grubby lil mitts on, and we can point you to the bathroom or un-jam staplers with the best of ‘em…but what we can’t do is fix every technical problem you have.

Library Peeps have IT guys that we come crying to when iTunes won’t start or when we can’t figure out how to change which picture of kittens shows up on our wallpaper.

They hate us for it, but it keeps them employed and feeling needed, it’s a good balance.

There’s some serious yin and yang stuff going on here, folks.

The key bit of information to take from our IT/Library Peeps relationship is that we, as Library Peeps, are not built to fix your technical problems.

Heck, beyond turning things off and on a few times and banging on them with my palm, I’ve got no other technical savvy.

Sure, sure…I can jiggle the mouse or try the good old alt+control+delete method…but that’s the extent of what’s in my bag of tricks. In all reality, I'm barely qualified to use email or log-in to Facebook without assistance.

As such, some dude asking me to “log in” with his IP address was akin to someone stomping into the library and screaming at me in Russian with an Italian accent…I sure as hell didn’t know what he was talking about or what I could do to help him.

Confused in Cambridge: “Yeaaaaaaah…um, I don’t know how to do that or even what I’d be doing if I did know how to do that.”
Mystified in Manchester: “This is MIT, right?”
Confused in Cambridge: “Yeppers, this is the Barker Engineering Library.”
Mystified in Manchester: “…and you can’t do this?”
Confused in Cambridge: “Not so much.
Mystified in Manchester: “Really?!”
Confused in Cambridge: “Yes, Sir…really. Now let’s try to figure out what the issue is here…did you try printing from one of the computers here in Barker or one of the other libraries?”
Mystified in Manchester: “Oh no, I’ve never been to the campus. I’m trying to print at my house in New Hampshire.”
Confused in Cambridge: “Wait…you’re trying to print TO our campus from your home? Or you’re trying to print…at your home…from your home?”
Mystified in Manchester: “Yeah, I’m trying to print from my desktop to my new printer. Can you help me set it up or not?”

There was a few moments of silence where I was contemplating giving seppuku a try and seeing if it lived up to the hype, then I remembered that I was still technically on the phone with a patron and should probably help him rather than stick a sword in my gut.

Confused in Cambridge: “No sir, I think you’re going to want to contact the manufacturer of the printer or maybe the “Geek Squad” or something, that’s not the type of problem we usually deal with here.”
Mystified in Manchester: “…but….but you’re MIT.”
Confused in Cambridge: “Right…the library, this is the library. We don’t usually do trouble-shooting on electronics.”
Mystified in Manchester: “So even if I give you the IP address, you can’t log in and set it up?”

There was another awkward moment of silence whilst I bit my tongue to avoid saying anything that could be perceived as uncouth or ill-mannered…or true.

Then I took a breath and politely replied:

Confused in Cambridge: “No sir, you’re going to need to contact someone else, again I recommend the manufacturer or the “Geek Squad.””
Mystified in Manchester: “…but, you’re MIT.”
Confused in Cambridge: “Yes. Yes this is MIT, but we’re not in the business of helping people install home electronics. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to try elsewhere. Goodbye.”

I hung up as he kept mumbling butyou’remitbutyou’remit into the other end of the phone.

Maybe I’ve worked in libraries for too long. I guess it’s been like eight years now, so perhaps I’m a little out of it, but please tell me, my Faithful Readers…do all y’all—who aren’t Library Peeps yourselves—actually perceive us as all-powerful beings who can fix any problem you may have?

…or do I just attract the craziest of the crazy?!

Please lemme know…opinions on this will be greatly appreciated.


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Things at Which I Suck: St. Patrick's Day



It’s St. Patrick’s Day.

I’m 26-years old.

I live in Boston.

I think you all know what that means…



Sadly, no.

…it means I’ll be working until 8pm and then headed home to eat some supper and go to bed at a respectable hour. If I’m feeling in the mood for some “crazy shenanigans,” perhaps I’ll have a Miller Lite or two before retiring for the evening with a book in hand.

Yeah, I’m old. I’m sad. I’ve come to terms with it and all y’all should too.

My days of getting crazy on St. Patty’s were limited to the two years I lived in South Boston—directly on the parade route—and that’s about it.

We’d throw a party for any soul brave enough to venture into the ravenous, drunken mob that overran the streets of Southie every year for the parade. We’d hang out windows, scream at the top of our lungs, and perhaps enjoy one or two adult beverage too many.

Those days are over.

Sure, sure…I’m wearing green today and if given the chance I’ll gladly pinch anyone who is not, mostly that’s because today is the one day it’s not sexual harassment (…right?!), but in the grand scheme of things, I’m just not all that jazzed about St. Patty’s Day.

Last year was our first year out east that we didn’t live on the parade route and Grace and I totally spaced off celebrating St. Patty’s Day.

Honestly, had we not lived on the parade route—where getting intothe festivities isn’t so much an option as a survival method—I don’t think I’d have ever put anything into celebrating.

St. Patrick’s Day has been unofficially christened “National Amateurs Drinking Day” for a reason and I have no intention of going out to the bars tonight to fight with 21-year olds frat guys decked out in Celtics jerseys just to pay $8 for a beer and get wasted on “a school night.”

So it is with a heavy heart (mostly from the bacon and red meat consumption) that I must admit to you, my Faithful Readers, that I am an old fuddy-duddy who ain’t in the partyin’ spirit.

I suck at St. Patrick’s Day.


PS: If you listen carefully, you can hear Jackie Partyka weeping—albeit into a pint of Guinness—at today’s proclamation. Sorry Partyka. I’m a sad old man. Although if you were here, I could probably get coaxed into enjoying a few frosty pints of beer tainted with toxic green dye.

PPS: I’m not alone in my anti-St. Patrick’s Dayness…Three years for dudes in their mid-20s who ain’t havin’ it. Hip-Hip-Hooray. Hip-Hip-Hooray. Hip-Hip-Hooray!!




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Monday, March 15, 2010

Cheeseburger Chronicles #036


Anyone who read about my many intriguing exploits last Saturday at work know that I’d had a pretty long day by the time I finally clocked out.

As such, I wandered up to Central Square to snag some beer for Grace and I to enjoy whilst watching Whip It—which, by the way, was AWESOME—and on the way I made eye contact with a gigantic poster.

The poster was hanging in the window of—you guessed it—Wendy’s.

The poster was pimping Wendy’s new Bacon and Blue burger, a concoction eloquently described on the company’s website:

Send your taste buds into overdrive with fresh, never frozen North American beef covered in real blue cheese crumbles layered with thick, fresh-cooked Applewood Smoked Bacon, topped with sautéed onions and creamy steakhouse sauce.

Being that I’d had a pretty craptacular day, I was hungry, and this was made of dead cow AND dead pig…I had no choice but to get one.

Here be the results…

Cheeseburger #036

What: Bacon and Blue Burger

Where: Ghetto Wendy’s in Central Square

When: March 13, 2010

How (was it): Not gonna lie, this burger was bad-to-the-ass.

I hadn’t set the bar real high when I ordered. In fact, I was going to go ahead and call it a win if it didn’t make me sick to my stomach before I had time to get home and enjoy some cinematic derby action and a few cold beers.

Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a really good burger.

The “creamy steakhouse sauce” meshed really well with the sautéed onions and the blue cheese melted all over the place making for a gooey, bacony surprise in the middle of each bite.

Wendy’s has done me right two times in a row, which isn’t a good sign, perhaps another embargo is looming?

I’ve learned that the key to avoiding a stomach pump after eating at this particular Wendy’s is to go in there when the place is pretty much completely empty.

Any time the undoubtedly highly-skilled burger technicians behind the counter have to deal with more than two or three people’s meals at a time, they get panicked and everything tastes like a horsemeat and Velvetta sammitch.

The last two times I’ve been in there it’s just me, some homeless people, an old man eating some questionable chili, a drug dealer, and a few drunken frat guys…apparently that’s the magical formula for a good burger at Wendy’s.

Who knew?!



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Game On: A Call to Arms


My Faithful Readers, I come to you today with a challenge.

My friend (read: sworn blogging enemy) Andrew Miller over at The Miller Times has thrown down the gauntlet for challenge amongst our respective legions of readers/fans/people with nothing better to do than read our crap.

You see it’s that time of year where we all pretend we give a rat’s ass about college basketball (aka: March Madness).

Now sure, most of us haven’t watched a game of college basketball since—well—since the final team left on last year’s bracket was eliminated, but that fact notwithstanding, I need some/any/all y’all to represent, in the name of “Blank Stares and Blank Pages.”

The challenge was laid out as such:

Since we each have a Facebook fan page, we can set up a [bracket challenge] group including only our fans. At the end of the tournament, we compare the winning bracket from each of our competitions, respectively, to determine whose readership is the best at predicting things. And stuff. If TMT Reader X scores 87 points and BSBP Reader Y scores 85, I win. And vice versa.

There you have it, my Faithful Readers, I need all y’all to step up and prove that your collective random guessing ability is superior to that of a group of complete strangers!!

…or something like that.

Anyway, here’s the important deets (that’s how the cool kids are abbreviating “details”…damn I’m so fly-ass, bomb-diggity with the youthful lingo and whatnot)…

The “BS&BP March Madness Challenge” will be hosted by the fine-folks over at Yahoo! and—because no one in their right mind would pay to do this—it’s free.

Here be the quasi-convoluted instructions:

1. If you don’t already have one, it’d be a good time to go and snag a Yahoo! account. Once again, it’s free. Just go here and fill in the blanks.
2. If you already have one, and/or after you’ve registered, head here.
3. The league ID# is 93570. The password is (obviously) “cheeseburgers”…you should be all set now. Give your bracket a name and pick your winners.

As he is wont to do, Andrew has already rallied his troops by offering free stuff and charitable donations for whomever wins the bracket challenge from his camp.

As such, I’m going to match him blow-for-blow.

Whichever one of all y’all wins the inaugural “BS&BP March Madness Challenge” will earn themselves a $25 donation, in their name, to the Special Olympics of Iowa (a charity that is near and dear to my bacon-infused heart) and—because people love themselves some swag—you’ll also get this bitchin’ shirt you see to the right.

Yeah, that’s right. It’s a zombie shirt, baby!!

You win this tournament and it could be ALL yours.

The only real rule in this challenge is as follows:

To be eligible to win these bitchin’ prizes, you must be a member of the Blank Stares and Blank Pages Facebook fan page, which—if you haven’t already—you can join by clicking here.

So there you have it, folks.

There’s clearly a lot on the line in this challenge. Sure, sure there’s a national championship or something riding on these basketball fellas, but there’s also the pride and integrity of the entire BS&BP community and, obviously, my good name as a blogger with the finest guessers in all the land.

So, my Faithful Readers, sign up today, make your completely random (and/or well-educated) guesses, and make me proud.

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Saturday, March 13, 2010

Saturdays are Special: Part Three


Whilst giving all y’all a rundown of the special, special people I meet on Saturdays you’ve been witness to people who are a) just sort of clueless assholes and b) just sort of clueless asshole about technology.
My third run-in of the day was with a dude who was a combination of both.

Awesome.

Lemme set the scene for all y’all…

This dude meanders in with two or three big ole bags, one of which contains a laptop. He makes plenty of noise on the way in, because he’s a noisy guy. He says hi or tries to make awkward small talk with just about everyone he passes and then sprawls all of his crap out in the corner of the computer cluster.

Now, I should let you know this guy is pretty notorious for this type of behavior. He first showed up a few weeks back—on a Saturday, of course—to check out the library. Since then he’s shown up once every other week or so, seemingly to use the library as his office.

He’ll usually Bogart a couple of computers at a time, whilst pecking away on his laptop, he’ll make loud phone calls, he’ll waste my time asking dozens and dozens of pointless questions about the copy machine, etc, etc, etc…

He is, however, completely harmless. You tell him to stop hogging computers and he’ll stop. You tell him to take his loud-ass phone call into the lobby, he’ll do it. He’s really just an annoying pain in the ass—or PITA, as the kids say—more than anything.

Anyway, it’s him. He’s here. He’s going through is usual mumbo jumbo when suddenly he flips out.

PITA: “SIR. EXCUSE ME. SIR. SIR. SIR. SIR. SIR!!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: *sigh* “Yes?!”
PITA: “THE COMPUTERS!!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “…yeah?! What about them?!”
PITA: “THEY’RE BROKEN!!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: *sigh* “…broken?!”

At this point, I got out of my chair and wandered over to see what the hell he was talking about.

Two of the computers—the two near the corner where he usually sets up camp—were both without power.

PITA: “SEE THEY’RE BROKEN!! I DIDN’T DO IT!! THEY WERE LIKE THIS!!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Calm down…”
PITA: “Okay…but the are broken. THEY’RE BROKEN!!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Right…lemme take a peek at ‘em.”

I crawled around on the floor for a bit and flipped some power switches and unplugged and replugged the power strip. You know, all of things that the non-IT crowd is sanctioned to do with computerized equipment.

Strung-Out Cap’n: “Yeah, looks like these two are out of order.”
PITA: “WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!?!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “…it just means you’ll have to use another computer.”
PITA: “I LIKE THESE COMPUTERS!!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Calm down. The other computers are just fine. These two are out of order.”
PITA: “TRY AGAIN?!?!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Try what again?”
PITA: “FIX THE COMPUTERS!!!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Calm down. I’ll try again…”

I got down on my hands and knees again—and my knees DO NOT appreciate me pulling a stunt like this once, but twice within ten minutes, I’m just happy they didn’t go into a full-on mutiny—and did the exact same routine.

*FLIP SWITCH* …nothing
*UNPLUG, REPLUG* …nothing
*HOLD POWER BUTTON* …nothing

Strung-Out Cap’n: “Yeah, they’re down for the count, you’ll have to use a different computer.”
PITA: “TRY AGAIN?!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “No, no…twice was enough. They’re not going to work. There are four other open computers just use one of them.”
PITA: “Why can’t you fix it?!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “…because I’m not an IT-guy.”
PITA: “Can you get one?”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “No, it’s a Saturday. I’m the only one here.”
PITA: “So you should fix it?!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “No…no…I can’t fix it. I don’t know how to fix it. That’s for people who make a lot more money than me.”
PITA: “You want me to pay you to fix it?!”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying that the people who do fix computers aren’t here today. They’re at home.”
PITA: “Can you call them? Emergency?”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “No…this isn’t an emergency. There are four other computers. Just use one of them.”

It was at this point that I was reaching what is commonly referred to as “the breaking point.”

I’d been talking in circles with this ridiculously loud, hyper dude for like 15 minutes. I realize there is a language barrier as English clearly isn’t his first—or maybe even second or third—language, but I thought I’d made things pretty clear that he’d need to use another computer.

Anyway, I printed off a few “Out of Order” signs to hang on the computers and when I went to hang them on the computers he was still standing where I’d left him.

PITA: “Did you fix them? Are they working now?”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “What?! No, I just printed signs saying they’re not working.”
PITA: “So they’re still broken?”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Yes.”

I hung the signs and went back to the circulation desk.

I checked out a few books to another patron when he came shuffling up to the desk.

PITA: “Which computer is best?”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Huh?!”
PITA: “Which computer is best? Which one should I use?”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “They’re all the same. They’ve all got the same software and everything. Just use any of them.”

He took this statement literally and went and sat down at one of the out of order computers and began mashing the power button.

PITA: “SIR!!”

This is where I was mumbling something along the lines of areyoufuckingkiddingmehowdoesthisshitonlyhappenwhenimherealone under my breath as I got up to try and explain—once more—that he couldn’t use those computers.

Strung-Out Cap’n: “Dude…these are out of order. You know that.”
PITA: “You said I could use any of them.”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Any of the ones that aren’t out of order.”

He then got up and started pointing at various computers and looking at me for acknowledgement as to whether or not he could use each one. I told him no, he couldn’t use either of the broken ones. No, he couldn’t use the one another patron was on. Yes, he could use EVERY OTHER COMPUTER.

He nodded, bowed, and thanked me.

I turned to go back to the desk and he stopped me in my tracks…

PITA: “…but which one is best?!”

I took a minute to daydream before turning around—at which point, I fully intended to strangle him to death—and all I could think about was a blog post I’d written about a year ago.

It was a debate about what was worse Zombies or Library Crazies.

I’m on a bit of a zombie-kick right now, so I’ve been prone to claim zombies are the most bad-ass creatures ever, but if I had to put this debate back up for discussion…I really think I’d say the library crazies are worse.

Anyway, after a moment of clarity—and briefly imagining a zombie ripping this dude to shreds—I knew there was only one way to handle the situation.

I turned around and said…

Strung-Out Cap’n: “That one. That one is the best. Use it. It’s the best.”

He got all super giddy and then went about his business sending emails and looking up Jebus-knows-what for an hour or so before getting up to leave. Although on his way out the door he stopped to tell me something…

PITA: “I forgot that I unplugged cords.”
Strung-Out Cap’n: “Huh?!”
PITA: “On the computers. I pulled cords.”

I walked with him over to the computers where I found that he’d unplugged the power cord from the back of each of the two “broken” machines. Why, I don’t know. He just smiled and left.

I plugged in the power cords and then flipped the switch on the power strip and all was right with the world. Both computers fired right up.

Forty-five minutes later I closed the library.

It’s been a long damn day.

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Saturdays are Special: Part Two

Lots of people don’t understand technology, or perhaps they simply don’t understand what it is and is not capable of accomplishing.

Some dude just sauntered in here telling me he’d like to check out a book he’d had like a year and a half ago.

Apparently he’d started reading it before he had to leave the country for business and he’d really like to finish it.

Being the ever-helpful library dude that I am, I did my best to explain that we don’t keep borrowing records—go, go Patriot Act—but I could look it up for him.

As most people who come in on Saturdays are wont to do, he complained…

Books McCoy: “This is a huge inconvenience.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Sorry, there’s not anything I can do about it, but I can look up the book.”
Books McCoy: “You just said you couldn’t…”
Cap’n Charisma: “No, no…I can’t look up a list of the books you’ve checked out, but I can look up the book. So you can check it out again.”
Books McCoy: “Oh, well I don’t remember the title.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Oh…um…okay. How about the author?”
Books McCoy: “No, I don’t know the author.”
Cap’n Charisma: “So you don’t know the title or the author? Do you know anything about the book?”
Books McCoy: “Yes…”
Cap’n Charisma: “Okay cool…what do you got?!”
Books McCoy: “It was blue or maybe green. Definitely blue or green.”

Anyone who has been a frequent reader here at “Blank Stares and Blank Pages” is well aware that library patrons have this odd affinity for book colors over actual book information.

I know I’ve blogged about this type of situation a time or two before and I think everyone who has ever worked a circulation desk has had to politely explain that books aren’t cataloged by cover color at least a half-a-dozen times in their career.

Cap’n Charisma: “Okay, we don’t actually catalog books by color. So do you know any searchable information about the book?”
Books McCoy: “I know I checked it out seventeen months ago and I enjoyed the first chapter.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Riiiiiiiight. Like I said, we don’t have a list of titles you bor…”
Books McCoy: *Cutting Me Off* “This is ridiculous. I don’t care if the government knows what I’m reading. Can’t you just keep a list of my titles?”
Cap’n Charisma: “No, sir. It’s an all or nothing thing.”
Books McCoy: “Such bullshit. Politics play into my library books. Government is keeping me from checking out books.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Actually, the only thing keeping you from the book is the lack of pertinent information. If you could remember the title or author, we can get you the book.”
Books McCoy: “So it’s my fault?”

UGH!! What an awful question. Obviously I can’t tell him that it is, in fact, his own damn fault he can’t remember anything—aside from one or two possible cover colors—about a book he supposedly really, really liked.

As such, I proceeded like a professional.

I tazered him.

Okay, no…I didn’t tazer him, but how cool would that have made the story?! Angry library patron gets a tazer to the throat. Awesome.

Anyway…

Cap’n Charisma: “No, sir, it’s no one’s fault.”
Books McCoy: “Really?! I think it’s your fault.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Sir, there’s nothing I can do. We don’t have a magical hidden database with your borrowing record and I can’t look up books by color. Period.”

There was one of those fun awkward periods of silence where he was obviously trying to determine whether or not he wanted to get irate or just accept that there wasn’t anything we could do for him.

Books McCoy: “You know, I really don’t like it when people say no to me.”
Cap’n Charisma: “I’m not saying no, I’m saying we can’t. There isn’t anything I can do if you don’t know the title or author.”
Books McCoy: “Don’t you think that’s bad service?”
Cap’n Charisma: “What’s bad service? That I can’t magically decipher what book you checked out a year and a half ago without any information. How is that bad service?”
Books McCoy: “I’m sure Harvard could figure it out.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Even if Harvard did keep backlogs of checkouts, they wouldn’t have our records to check it with, so no Harvard couldn’t figure it out.”
Books McCoy: “Oh, well they don't need your records, becase I didn’t check it out here…”
Cap’n Charisma: “Wait…didn’t check it out from here, like the Engineering Library or from MIT?!”
Books McCoy: “From MIT.”

As one can assume, I was doing my best to resist pummeling this dude to a bloody pulp with a copy of “Climate Change and Agriculture.” When he let me know exactly how big of a pain he really was…

Books McCoy: “The Boston Public Library and Boston University couldn’t tell me what the book was either. I figured a technical school like this could get it done, but if you can’t I’m sure Harvard can.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Where did you borrow the book from?”
Books McCoy: “I borrowed it from the town library where I used to live, in California.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Yeah….no one out here is going to be able to look that book up for you.”
Books McCoy: “This is horrible service!! That tiny little branch library could do it, how come none of you can?!”

He then stomped off, mumbling under his breath about how superior small-town California was to the east coast.

People like this make my brain hurt and my soul sad.

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Saturdays are Special: Part One


This isn’t a re-run folks, I promise.

Today when I came in to open the library there were a number of people lurking in the lobby—as is all too often the case—and they kept yanking on the door and knocking despite the big ole sign that says we don’t open until one’o’clock.

Anyway, so I finally meander upstairs to open the doors a little before one and it’s like 12:50 or so and I’ve got nothing else left to do before we open, so I go ahead and kick open the front door to let the small battalion of library-lovin’ peeps come on in.

They respond in the way that is seemingly only natural, by stampeding over me and passed me. Apparently, since they’ve been waiting for so long—for no good reason—to get into the library, waiting another six seconds for me to get out of the way would just be too damn long.

Anyway, I know you’ve heard these stories a million times, but I promise you this isn’t a re-run and here’s why…

Despite the fact that I’d opened the library ten minutes early, there’s some crotchety old dude who doesn’t think that’s good enough.

Cap’n Cranky-Pants: “Why’d you make us wait so long?”
Cap’n Charisma: “Huh?”
Cap’n Cranky-Pants: “In the lobby. You left us out there for like an hour.”
Cap’n Charisma: “Riiiiiight, but we don’t open until 1pm. In fact, we’re even open a little early right now. It was your choice to camp out in the lobby.”
Cap’n Cranky-Pants: “No, it was your decision to leave us out there…”

As often the case, at this point in the conversation, I took a minute to let it all soak in—and contemplate whether or not his body would into the trash can in the men’s room—and then proceeded.

Cap’n Charisma: “Sir, the place doesn’t open until it’s slated to open. If you chose to wait around for us to open, that’s your prerogative. You wouldn’t react like this outside of a grocery store or a restaurant would you?”

He then took a few second for quiet contemplation of his own.

I hoped this meant he was realizing the error in his logic and that I’d actually reduced his self-inflicted wait time by opening the doors a few minutes early. Perhaps he might even apologize to me.

Instead I got this…

Cap’n Cranky-Pants: “Yes. I would complain. I don’t like when things aren’t open when I want them to be open. It’s just bad customer service. Everything should be 24/7.”

Rather than tell him that he was a freakin’ nut-job with an obvious attachment to overwhelming narcissism, I simply sighed and walked back to the desk.

He walked over to the computer and promptly logged onto Facebook and—to keep up appearances every time I look his way—the MIT Libraries’ homepage.

Every ten minutes or so for the first hour or so he’d not quite so kindly tell me how slow the computers were or that he thought someone sneezing inside the dome was making it hard to concentrate.

He left about an hour ago saying he was going to go to McDonald’s where they—and I quote—“Know How Customer Service Is Done!!”

Some days I really hate people.


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Thursday, March 11, 2010

Shout-Outs: Burgerman

Honestly, I could be giving this dude a shout-out simply because he dresses like a burger, eats tons of burgers, and has adopted Burgerman as his moniker.

Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure this means I’ve got to go back to the drawing board in terms of names for my first-born. That fact notwithstanding, this guy is pretty bad-ass.

Burgerman (aka: Sam Novey) is a 22-year-old dude with two pretty kick-ass goals.

Atop that list of goals is to run the Boston Marathon wearing the sexy burger suit you see to the right.

Second on his list of goals is to raise $100,000 for Citizens Schools.

Citizen Schools is a nonprofit organization that brings in community members, businesses, and college students to teach middle schoolers real life and job skills.

Burgerman’s lofty $100,000 goal would help expand the program into an additional twenty classrooms.

I’m not one for telling people where to toss their money, but if you’re going to sponsor anyone in the Boston Marathon this year—and odds are you’re at least going to get asked to do so—why not this guy?!

I mean seriously, how cool would it be to tell people you sponsored the gigantic burger dude?!

At least you know he’d be easy to spot when he comes truckin’ through Natick and Newton or when he comes rumblin’ by Fenway and on toward Boylston.

If you need any more incentive, how’s about this:


Yeah, that’s right…he’s got his own Rocky-themed montage video to get y’all fired up about his exploits.

Plus, if that doesn’t have you hankerin’ for a trip to b.good for a big ole cheeseburger, well then golly, I don’t know what will.

Burgerman, this shout-out’s for you…



PS: If I could borrow that suit sometime, that’d be swell.


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Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Lindsay Lohan Sucks at Life


Remember Mean Girls?

Remember when Lindsay Lohan was super hot?

I do, vaguely anyway.

I’ve got to be honest that fleeting memory is fading deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of my mind. Soon it’ll be in the unreachable wasteland that houses algebra equations, old phone numbers, and Savage Garden lyrics.

Remember Savage Garden? Exactly.

Anyway, as I’m sure all y’all read somewhere today, Lindsay Lohan is suing E*Trade for $100 million.

Why is she suing them you ask?! Well obviously she’s got a good reason. Let’s go to the unflappable New York Post to find out what that reason might be…

Lindsay Lohan is suing the financial company E-Trade, insisting that a boyfriend-stealing, "milkaholic" baby in its latest commercial -- who happens to be named Lindsay -- was modeled after her. And she wants $100 million for her pain and suffering

Now when I said she had a “good reason” for suing, obviously I meant “bat-shit crazy rationale” that could only be conjured up in the mind of some sort of strung-out former teen starlet…

For anyone who hasn’t seen the “controversial” commercial, here it is in all its Lohan-bashing glory:


Ah yes, clearly I could see how Lindsay Lohan would be offended by that one. You know with the babies and the stocks and whatnot. She was once a baby once and I’m sure she had money once. I could see how that warrants her a $100 million payday for pain and suffering.

Heck, maybe she’ll even invest with E*Trade to diversify her portfolio.

I’m sure she won’t just blow it all on heroin and whiskey or anything foolish like that.

Making this completely baseless lawsuit seem all the more delusional is this quote from Lohan’s lawyer, Stephanie Ovadia who claimed that Lohan has single-name recognition, just like—get this—Madonna or Oprah.

“Many celebrities are known by one name only, and E*Trade is using that knowledge to profit,” Ovadia said. “They used the name Lindsay … This is a subliminal message. Everybody’s talking about it and saying it’s Lindsay Lohan.”

Ah yes, because when I hear the name Lindsay…in any context, no matter how completely asinine, I obviously think of Ms. Lohan. It’s instantaneous and unavoidable.

Puh-leeze…

In the words of today’s youth...“Bitch, you be trippin’…

When I hear Lindsay, my first thought always goes to the lovely and talented Ms. Lindsey Quick (that’s Lindsey with an “e”), not to Lohan.

If you were to walk up to me and say that a crazy coked-out redhead had just plowed her BMW through the side of an Arby’s…well then sure…at that point Lindsay Lohan might be my go-to, but she’s certainly not the end-all, be-all of Lindsays (or Lindseys) in my book.

Honestly, I don’t get what the big deal is…implying that she drinks too much milk is probably the nicest thing anyone has said about Lohan in years. She should be relishing in the first positive press she’s gotten since before the release of the cinematic abortion that was Herbie: Fully Loaded.

Man…Lindsay Lohan sucks at life.


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Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Zooey Strikes Again


Anyone who has swung by BSBP a time or two is well aware of my crush on a certain gal by the name of Zooey.

For those not in the know, I’m referring the one and only, Zooey Deschanel.

Zooey has received heaps of praise and/or quasi-stalker attention from me over the course of the past year or so and today she gets a little more.

Today I was introduced to the debut music video for “In the Sun.” (MegaProps to Margaret for the heads up on this one!!)

You see, Zooey isn’t just an adorable actress. She’s also a singer and a pretty nifty one at that. She’s in a band with a pretty chill dude by the name of M. Ward.

Collectively they’re known as She & Him.

The duo released their first album, simply titled Volume One, two years ago in March of 2008.

The album had some pretty kickin’ tunes including: “Sentimental Heart,” “This is Not a Test,” and the infectious (in a good way, not like gonorrhea) “Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?

Zooey would soon prove that her talents aren’t limited to simply acting and singing, however, with the release of a music video tie-in for the release of the totally bad-ass flick 500 Days of Summer.

In the aforementioned video, Zooey proved that dancing was also solidly engrained in her repertoire of things that make her oh-so-very crushworthy.

Where is all of this going you ask, my Faithful Readers? Well let me tell you.

In the new video for “In the Sun” (off of She and Him’s second album Volume Two) Zooey combines all of the previously mentioned special skills with yet another spectacular ability that is sure to please her adoring fans…hula hooping!!

That’s right, ladies and gents…Zooey appears to be an accomplished hula hooper in addition to her bevy of other talents.

Best of luck not falling in love with her:



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My Quick Oscars Recap


Hey y’all, I meant for this to be much longer and more in-depth, but it turns out that I really don’t care about the Oscars enough to make that happen.

I did, however, watch the entire show—Grace is OBSESSED—so I’ve got a pretty solid handle on what did and didn’t go down from the second ABC went live until the last award was handed out and they faded to black.

So without any further ado, here is my quick recap of Sunday night’s event.

Kathy Ireland

Kathy Ireland is a freakin’ alien. Perhaps she’s even a really anorexic and bleached version of one of those things from Avatar, I’m not entirely sure.

All I know is that sure-as-hell ain’t the same chick I had a major crush on through the majority of my formative years.

Anyone who has ever seen Necessary Roughness knows what I’m talking about.



George Clooney

This dude is absolutely untouchable.

I’m pretty sure that Clooney is the Hollywood-equivalent of Jebus as this point, because this dude is adored no matter what he does.

He shows up in dire need of a haircut, he gets praised. He looks surely all evening, he gets praised. He acts like he’d rather be shaking up with his flavor-of-the-month girlfriend than sitting in the audience, he gets praised.

The dude is absolutely untouchable.



Jack Nicholson

He shows up when he wants to.

Deal with it.



Gabourey Sidibe

Gabourey Sidibe is done in Hollywood.

It may sound awful, but let’s be honest here folks, the Precious star is just a new version of Jennifer Hudson.

Remember when her career was set to take off after an Oscar win? Can anyone tell me what she’s done since then?!

The big difference here is that Gabourey Sidibe didn’t even take home the Oscar. We all know how Hollywood works and I just can’t imagine her fitting in another starring role anytime soon.

Call me whatever you want, but it’s just the facts folks. Hollywood sucks.



Sandra Bullock

I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her.

I’m pretty sure the entire world is in love with her.

…and that’s cool, because we all should be.



Ben Stiller

I’m not entirely sure what the whole idea was behind the whole Avatar get-up, thing.

It was kinda funny.

It was also kinda annoying.

It was definitely far too lengthy.

In the end, I’m just not a big Stiller fan.

I loved Zoolander and Dodgeball will always hold a special place deep in my heart, but overall, I think he’s kind of a tool who landed a chick light-years out of his league…’tis unrelated, but he should hear it as often as possible.



Interpretive Dance

I don’t know who thought it’d be a wise idea to have a dance troop come on and do interpretive dance to represent each of the best picture nominees, but as I was watching it (read: for the three minutes I could stand it before I used the opportunity to get another beer and hit up the bathroom) I could think one thing and one thing only:


W.T.F.




John Hughes

It was a pretty big deal to give Hughes such a major tribute.

I just don’t get why—after years of avoiding singling out individuals for memoriam-type tributes—they decide to go with one for Hughes.

I mean, I get that Hughes was, like, the director of the ‘80s…but come on…we’ve seen the deaths of many far greater contributors to Hollywood receive drastically less praise in recent years.

I guess I just found it a little weird to give one dude—albeit a bad-ass dude—so much prime time space, especially when you consider that peeps like Farrah Fawcett, Henry Gibson, and/or the unforgettable Bea Arthur were all somehow left out of the overall “In Memoriam” slideshow all together.

Making it all-the-more perplexing is why/how Judd Nelson, looking like some sort of wino off the streets was even allowed within the same zip code as the Kodak Theatre on Oscar night.

Molly Ringwald just seemed nervous as all hell. Granted, she hasn’t been in front of a real camera in like twenty years, so I could see how that’d happen.



Avatar

I haven’t seen it.

In fact, I can safely say that I have no doubt I’ll go my entire life having never seen it.

I said the same thing about the Lord of the Rings movies, the Harry Potter movies, and all these vampire movies and I meant it.

James Cameron is a pretentious d-bag and I’m like ten thousand kinds of happy he got beat by his ex. Sure, sure…she got all frozen and panicky and went into repeat mode about the military, but whatevs…she kicked the Titanic dude’s ass and that’s all I need to be happy.



Roger Ross Williams and Elinor Burkett

This whole Kanye West/Taylor Swift-like encounter just confused the crap outta me.

Williams had just hit the podium to give his thank yous and whatnot for Best Documentary Short (“Music by Prudence”) when suddenly some chick bumrushes the stage and takes over the microphone.

A little Googling would later reveal it was the producer of his movie, Elinor Burkett who had hijacked his speech.

The entire time I was waiting for her to say that his documentary short was good…but Beyonce has the best documentary short of all-time. Alas, that never took place.

At the same time, I was waiting for Williams to brain her to death with his Oscar. Despite the thought obviously crossing his mind—take a look at a replay and check that dude’s eyes—it never came to be either.

Rumor has it these two cats had gone through some serious differences on the set as well.

Nothing like a little Hollywood drama on Oscar night, huh?!



…and that, my Faithful Readers, is my quick Oscars recap!


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Our Bathroom Sucks


I really hate our bathroom.

I know that may seem a bit—um—“extreme” to say that you hate a bathroom, but yeah…I totally freakin’ hate our bathroom.

Partially because it may or may not be the source of the ominous beeping that refuses to go away and/or partially because everyone can hear you do your business.

You see the pooper is right by the door. The door leads directly into the living room. The living room is where 91% of our social gatherings take place.

It doesn’t matter if you’re going onesies or twosies or even simply washing your hands, everyone can hear it.

And not only can they hear it, but they can hear it in full-on, surround sound because of the echo. You see it’s a teeny-tiny bathroom with walls covered in tile.

As such, even a yawn echoes in there like it’s one of those secret tunnels at Niagara Falls. You can practically hear everything that goes in there miles and miles away.

Additionally, the door is cut high enough that one could conceivably—and by conceivably, I mean this has totally happened—slip an iPhone or another similarly slim photo-taking device under the door.

That’s some awkward stuff right there.

If that weren’t enough, our sink sucks.

I absolutely hate our bathroom sink.

It’s too shallow. Anytime you want—you know—water pressure you end up getting soaked. Everything around the sink gets soaked. It’s awful.

The only way to avoid the shallow-splash effect is to turn on the water in a tiny trickle that essentially serves no purpose.

Sometimes I punch my sink.

Oh, the aforementioned sink of doom also has two temperatures. There is “arctic freeze” and “molten lava.” That’s it. There is no middle ground.

The water is either freezing or it’s hot enough to melt the flesh right off the bone.

It’s just simply fan-f’n-tastic!!

One of my favorite bloggers, Andrew Miller over at the oft-mentioned “The Miller Times” has referenced his disgust with his bathroom as well.

With that in mind, I can only assume that just about everyone hates their bathroom for one reason or another.

Lemme hear it, my Faithful Readers…why do you hate your bathroom?!

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Monday, March 08, 2010

Cheeseburger Chronicles #034 & #035

I warned y’all early on in the Cheeseburger Chronicles that I’d probably end up eating more than my fair share of awful burgers over the course of the year.

One of the places I spotlighted with that reference is Wendy’s. More specifically, the ghetto Wendy’s that resides oh-so-close to my apartment in Central Square. Somehow, I’ve only gobbled down three burgers there thus far. Not bad nearly 70 days into the new(ish) year, right?!

Anyway…I broke down on Sunday and had some more “Shame Broiled” burgers at Wendy’s.

As is all-too-often the case, I hadn’t eaten all day.

I’d woken up quasi-late and then wasted most of my morning on coffee and the interwebs before meandering off—into what was either upstate New York or southeastern Canada—for a performance by the one and only TPN and the Metropolitan Wind Symphony.

Upon arriving back in Central Square I realized that I was pretty much famished.

I’d sorta come to this conclusion on the subway when—whilst stuck for 45+ minutes—I was sizing up each and every person on the train to determine who would make the best meal if we were down there any longer (read: another 16 minutes) and I were forced to go cannibal.

Anyway, when I popped out of the subway what stood before me?! Well it was none other than the ghetto Wendy’s…the rest, is history.

Cheeseburgers #034 and #035


What: Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers (no tomato)

When: March 7, 2010

Where: Wendy’s in Central Square

How (was it): Oddly enough, they were pretty good.

I ordered some of the new(ish) spicy chicken nuggets as a backup plan, but the burgers were actually pretty good.

Maybe it’s because it was a very, very, very slow Sunday afternoon and they were legitimately only making things as they were ordered (thus the 10 minute wait) and/or I was just so damned hungry I’d have thought anything— short of those f’n sliders—tasted pretty good at that point.

No matter what the reason, they were good burgers. I didn’t even get that weird quasi-pukey feeling I usually get about an hour after eating at Wendy’s. So that’s a huge plus.




…perhaps I’m setting the bar too low?!

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