The Daily Dump

A place where everyone (me) is welcomed to express their opinions openly and honestly. I encourage free thinking, free wheeling, off-the-cuff banter and monetary donations.

Tuesday, January 31

Because You Can’t Take Vicodin For Your Ego

I’m not mentally disabled. I don’t have a tumor pressing against my frontal lobe and I didn’t contract syphilis from a hooker on the trunk of my car in the underbrush beside the Jersey turnpike.

So when I read on a receipt “NO DELIVERY CHARGE” I take that to mean that there is no delivery charge. I was an English major, and more than that I’ve spoken the language exclusively my whole life. I know what the words NO DELIVERY CHARGE mean, both individually and when placed together to form a phrase.

Which is why I was so surprised when the delivery guys showed up at The Girlfriend’s apartment and said that it would be $40 for them to carry it up the stairs. Apparently, that’s their policy. It’s their policy to write the words “NO WALK-UP FEE” and then, after you question the $40 walk-up fee, look at you like my sister's Yorkshire terrier smoking a joint.














At that point, The Girlfriend and I had two options: 1. Let these guys carry a frame, a box spring and a Queen-sized mattress up four flights of stairs for the reasonable price of $40, or 2. display our collective pride and tell them their services won’t be necessary and carry it up ourselves. I don’t think I have to tell you which one we chose. Let’s jut say you don’t write blog posts about two guys you don’t know carrying a 1000lb mattress up four flights of stairs.

(Note: This wasn’t the first time I’ve let my pride get in the way of my physical health. Last year after I first joined the gym, I approached a complicated looking machine with cables and a seat that faced no direction in particular. I could only guess how it was used, but, not wanting to seem clueless, I “got on” the machine and began doing what I thought the machine was supposed to do.

Five seconds in it became evident that whatever I was doing was not what the machine’s intended use. However, I wasn’t about to let the people around me think I didn’t know what I was doing, so I continued on with the awkward and painful motion for three sets of ten. The rest in between the sets, where I sat there trying to look competent, ranks in the top five most awkward moments of my life. Like I always say though, you can have a rotator cuff surgically repaired, but not your pride.)

Immediately regretting my decision to carry the mattress up with the help guidance of a surgically repaired girl, I contemplated just leaving it on the second floor, hoping some fourth floor resident would get mad that it was blocking their path and carry it up the rest of the way. I know that sounds like a joke, but I’m serious. If there’s one thing this whole episode taught me about myself it’s this: I hate carrying heavy things up stairs. Apparently I’m “that” guy.

20 minutes and three promises to break up with one another later, we got the mattress into the apartment and set it up. The good news is that it is just as comfortable as Bill assured us it would be. The even better news is that it has additional high density encased springs throughout the lumbar region because my back is really fucked up.

And yet after all this, after the bed is made with clean sheets on it, after the girlfriend has made her first paranoid accusation that the lower left corner dips down, after I’ve ripped an awful fart in it, prompting The Girlfriend to lament “It’s ruined,” there’s still one thing bothering me. Maybe since everyone was so helpful in telling me why pants pockets are sewn shut* someone can be equally helpful with this:

Why are there flower patterns on mattresses?









Ever since I saw my first mattress they have had flower patterns no them. Who finds this attractive? Who buys a mattress because it has a flower pattern on it? Has this conversation happened?:

Guy: (laying on bed) “Hey, this one’s is really comfortable,”

Girl: (lays down next to him) “You’re right, it is comfortable. Too bad it doesn’t have a flower pattern on it.”

It’s probably the most expensive thing people buy for themselves that they subsequently hide underneath layers and layers of cloth so when they have company over the guests don’t have to look at it (unless you buy illegal immigrants). Yet they still put this flower pattern all over it? The worst part is, it’s not even a flower pattern! It’s a plant pattern! Some mess of leaves and stems inviting you to have a good night’s sleep . . . in the wilderness! Whatever, I’m done with mattresses.

__________________________________
* I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that they sew pants pockets closed to discourage you from putting stuff in them. They’re pockets! What else are you supposed to do with them, turn them inside out and make pretend your butt is a puppy dog with floppy ears? Ohh . . . OK, makes sense now. Nevermind.

The Girlfriend Likes Buying Things (And The Earth Is Still Round)

This is the tradition The Girlfriend has developed for when she gets her yearly bonus: First she gets very excited, making vague references to “saving” and “not being in debt.” The next day, she wakes up early, takes a shower and goes out to buy some expensive item that ranks somewhere between “unnecessary” (my opinion) and “a must-have if I want any chance at happiness” (her opinion).

Last year it was a new laptop, because her Dell was “too big” and “not nice looking.” She also purchased a TiVo, which I can’t really fault her on other than that she uses it mainly for “Murder She Wrote” and “Cold Case Files.”

This year we observed the ritual as usual, her paying off a large chunk of her credit card and seeming satisfied in her newfound fiscal responsibility . . . then almost immediately becoming visibly irritated that she had money that wasn’t being spent. It’s not that she’s bad with money; she just treats money the same way most people treat milk or fresh fruit – “I’d better use it otherwise it’s like I’m throwing it away.”

In the running for “absurd purchase” this year were four things: 1. a new bed, 2. an LCD TV or 3. a new dresser. After realizing that it was futile to try to stop her, I at least convinced her that the bed or the dresser were the best options. As it is now, she sleeps on a full sized mattress (which is fine for her but basically ruins my life every time I spend the night) and keeps her clothes in an old Ikea dresser that has broken down over years of use (literally a draw broke in half) leading to the creation of “The Gym Clothes Box” and “The Other Shirts” box, both of which I manage to inadvertently step into on my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She may not need these things the way a homeless person needs to have that infected wound looked at by a doctor, but at least an argument can be made for their purchase, whereas I can’t convince myself that Angela Landsbury would benefit at all from 36 inches of high definition.

So on Friday after work we went to the mattress store. Normally I’m wary of salesmen of all kinds, but mattress salesmen in particular typically have as much charisma as your local drug pusher. They’re selling something you can’t really go anywhere else to buy, and they’re making a commission off of it. It’s like me moving to Cuba and starting the only free-speech humor blog riddled with Ad-sense and then only writing jokes about immigrants. Or something like that.

Anyway, the point is this time was totally different. This time, our salesman was Bill. Bill was a Chinese man who thought that everything he said was funny, punctuating all his sentences with a muffled laugh. I imagine Bill wanting to be a surgeon growing up but giving up on the dream the first time he lost a patient and said to their family, “I’m sorry, Samantha didn’t make it through surgery, hmmhmm.”

This quality makes Bill perfect for selling mattresses. The Girlfriend and I got such a kick out of it, we would ask serious questions testing his response:

TG: “Why is it so hot in here?”

Bill: “It’s because we’re in the basement of an apartment building and the heating pipes run through here, hmmhmm.”

It put you at ease and made you feel as though not only could you trust Bill, but that Bill wasn’t smart enough to rip you off. But damned if Bill didn’t know everything there was to know about mattresses. After three (THREE) trips to the mattress store over two days (Did I mention The Girlfriend can’t make decisions?) and approximately four hours spent lying on eight different mattresses, we finally settled on this mattress after Bill described to us what EVERY SINGLE LAYER did. It was like listening to John Nash talk about math – before you know it you find yourself saying “Wow, this is really interesting!”




















The mattress being delivered is a whole other story, which I may or may not get into depending on how quickly I can type before the anti-anxiety medication wear off. In fact, I will write about it. It will be therapeutic. But I’m warning you, if you have any aversion to the phrase “cocksucking delivery guy” you might want to skip it.

Friday, January 27

Friday’s Quick Hits

– I’ve been doing research for work in a divorce case and I am AMAZED by the legal “excuses” people can provide for requesting a divorce. Constructive abandonment involves “one spouse's refusal to engage in sexual relations with the other spouse continuously for one year or longer without consent, good cause or justification.”

What’s so “constructive” about this, other than the fact that this is the basis on which, as I understand it, most marriages are constructed? After years of pestering a man to marry her, breaking him down with love, revealing clothing and his own money, a woman has earned the right to gain weight and stop having sex. This isn’t a reason to get a divorce, this is a reason to go on a vacation.

– I really can’t figure out why when you buy a pair of men’s pants the back pockets are sewn shut. I have theories, like so shipping clerks can’t hide drugs in them, or so small creatures can’t burrow into them and make a home. But I don’t have any concrete answers. And I even did a Google search and came up empty. I just want the clothing companies to know, I’m not mad. You can tell me, I won’t be angry with you. I just want to know why.

– Last night I hung out with these two guys and found out one absolute truth: though all three of us will claim that we hold nothing back in out blogs, the funniest things are the ones you just can’t publish on the internet.

– The other day I was looking for some batteries for one of my 15 remote controls and came across my solar calculator. It hit me: You can buy one solar calculator that will last you your entire life. Why would you ever need to buy a new one? Math isn’t going to change. It’s always going to be plus, minus, percent, etc. And there is always going to be sunlight.

So this raises two questions for me: 1. At some point is the market for solar calculators going to dry up completely? And 2. Who is at the source of the conspiracy to prevent other household items (like a goddamn remote control, for example) from being solar powered? I’ll tell you who – the battery companies. The fucking battery companies.

Thursday, January 26

100 Things About Me: #5

At this point, anyone who thinks I’m reaching the 100th "thing about me" before I die is kidding themselves. Originally, I had planned on taking this list slow so as to not bore everyone with a laundry list of facts without supporting commentary. That was two and a half months ago. At this rate, number 42 on the list will be “They revoked my flying car license because of glaucoma.”

But is my continuing education in the Israeli – Palestinian conflict has taught me anything it’s that just because something is impossible doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. So I continue down the list.

#5 I excel at leisure sports.

This isn’t even me bragging. This is just what my friends have told me. It’s not my fault I have incredibly astute friends who can’t help but notice my giftedness for pool, bowling, floor hockey, darts, climbing things and keeping a balloon in the air. Basically I’m a champion at anything you traditionally do while drinking. (The exception is dancing, although secretly I am convinced that if I wanted to I could dance like Paula Abdul in her prime. I just don’t want to.)

Historically, this particular athletic disposition hasn’t translated fully into the rest of the sports realm – namely the sports that people actually care about like baseball, football and basketball. It’s not that I can’t play these sports, because I’d consider myself above average in all of them (if average is not knowing how to put a cup on properly). It’s just that there was always something standing in the way of me becoming the great sports star I always dreamed I would be.

Take t-ball for example. I have an indelible memory of my aunt taking me to the first t-ball practice/game (do they even have t-ball practice?) when I was 4 or 5. I don’t recall if I stayed for the whole time, but I definitely recall not going back for a second or third time. Maybe it was my developmental dysfunction, maybe I thought it was an insult to my skills that the ball sat there right in front of you on a stand waiting to be hit; whatever the reason that ended my love affair with baseball.

Next came basketball when I was 8 or 9. I actually played for two whole seasons, an vast improvement over my previous experience. I don’t remember being very good, but I don’t remember anyone being very good – except for one kid on my team who wore spandex shorts under his regular gym shorts. At that age that’s the NBA equivalent of having a tattoo of your own face on your arm.

Sadly, my basketball career came to an end when I wore what I can only describe as the ugliest Velcro pants ever manufactured UNDER my gym shorts for the end of year team photo. (Reference the pants the kid has on in the t-ball photo for an example.) That is the NBA equivalent of slipping your locker-mate a note after a game that says, “I want you inside me.”

While the debacle could have scared me away from the whole sports scene, instead it just drove me to the fringes where I made myself at home playing hockey for the next eight years. And I was actually pretty good. Not good in the sense that I scored a lot of goals, but good in the sense that if someone was skating very fast towards me, I had the ability to run into him and more often than not hurt him more than myself.

And now I’m continuing my storied sporting tradition with a foray into a sport I’ve never played at all – volleyball. That’s right, along with a few of my friends (who are seasoned pros compared to me) I’ve joined a volleyball league here in the city. We had our first match last night and while I won’t say it was awful (we lost 3-0), I will say that we were overmatched by a team with three Asian players who seemed to be using some sort of code to communicate with one another.

I didn’t play too bad, although I did break every rule at least once and almost stepped on another player of mine while she lie prostrate on the ground. And I got a call from the league this morning asking me why I wrote my phone number in the place designated for my team name on the waiver of liability form. And, at any given point in the match someone had to point, not just tell me, but POINT to the spot on the floor where I should be, like a puppy who has peed on the tile and whose owner is now telling him so STAY! OVER THERE! STAY! And, all in all, volleyball is a lot harder than the tall, usually very attractive college girls on ESPN2 make it seem.

But the season is long and I have a good feeling about our team. One girl has already quit and one of our better players is going on an international expedition in a couple of weeks and missing the rest of the season. What I’m trying to say is, we can only get better from here. Rest assured, I will keep you updated.

On the bright side, I did make one awesome play. The other team had a perfect set for a spike but I went up and laid down a DOMINANT block. And let me tell you – the look on that girl’s face when the ball came right back at her, well it was priceless.

Wednesday, January 25

I Like Movies About Dogs

My official Sundance Festival recommendation, after a discriminating review involving only looking for movies involving bestiality.

I think it would be fun to promote this movie as a family film. Something along the lines of a woman, her fiancé and their loving dog, who is upset that the two are getting married because the woman would have less time to spend with the him. So the premise of the film is that the dog tries to come between the woman and her fiancé, through a series of quirky and funny stunts, but ultimately accepts that the woman’s happiness is what matters most and they all live together as one big happy family.

Then the studio would set up a recording device in all the theaters playing this movie. At first all you would hear is some mumbling, a few muffled comments like “Are you sure this is the right movie?” And then comes the scene and all you hear is “WHAT THE . . .” “OH CHRIST!” “WHY IS SHE DOING THAT?!” “GET THE KIDS OUT OF HERE, GO, GO!” along with sounds of a stampede, children crying and people dry heaving.

The tag line can be: “When man’s best friend wants more.”

Or “Come on . . . throw her a bone.” Yeah, I like that one.

(Did I mention Bobcat Goldthwait is the director? Because Bob Goldthwait is the director. That's probably the best reason to see the movie. OK, maybe not – but definitely the second best reason.)

Child Abuse No Big Deal, As Long As Kid Can’t See It




















Picture courtesy of the hilarious WWTDD

Not the fact that he's a fucking walking ad for insanity, but the fact that he's making his kids wear executioner masks while they walk around their new home, the Middle East? This isn't child abuse? I mean, you see a Puerto Rican man walking his three kids around Queens with black bags over their heads, you're probably going to call child services. It just seems like the right thing to do.

Tuesday, January 24

Bathroom Guys Follow-Up

In response to comments from yesterday’s post:

As for the Bathroom attendant, there’s not much you can do. It’s awkward for so many reasons, the foremost being that it is this man’s JOB to sit in a bathroom and cater to your needs and a paying, urinating customer. I can’t think of a more demeaning job than squirting soap in someone’s hand. I’d rather haul away someone’s garbage than squirt soap in their hand.

Think about this – a bathroom attendant actually needs to anticipate when a person will be done peeing, when they will need soap and when they will need a towel, making one of the easiest processes known to man (washing your hands) just that much easier. It’s no different than hiring someone to pick up the phone and hold it to your ear or open up the refrigerator and move stuff around so you can see what’s in the back. This guy is, in every sense of the word, completely useless.

But if I were rich, I would tip the bathroom attendant $100 every time I went in there. Because let’s face it: as a bathroom attendant you’re one step away from being homeless, but instead of welfare you chose to do this for a salary. And that’s respectable.

As for the Guy who rips one while at a urinal, I love this guy. Love him, love him, love him. There are few things more surprisingly entertaining than this happening. I mean, I could be at the funeral for my entire family who died of a freak case of Ebola, and if I ran into this guy in the bathroom I would laugh. I could be in general population at Rikers and despite the fact it would get me stabbed, I would laugh at this guy.

In fact, the one time I tried NOT to laugh at this guy, the pent up laughter only made me fart, as though we were beasts in the wild communicating with one another. Never again.

As for conversing with the person in the next stall, I don’t know why you would do it, unless the conversation was something like:

Person 1: “CHRIST, I THINK I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK.”

Person 2: “I’ll go get help.”

But if you are, and in the middle of that conversation someone starts making grunting noises indicating a struggle, I would hope that you would go right on talking as though you heard nothing. All the better if it leads to this situation:

Person 1: “So I don’t know what to do; my mom’s coming, his mom’s coming and I know they just –“

Person 2: “Grrr, hmmm”

Person 1: “– don’t get along. But I think they’ll realize that it’s important to us so hopefully they’ll put their differences a–“

Person 2: (plop)

Person 1: “side.”

And just as a SIDE NOTE, the best bathroom guy I ever ran into was a jazz trumpet player, who in my memory looks exactly like Ray Charles, here in New York.

My friends and I went to a show down in the village and when the band took a break my buddy Matt and I went to use the bathroom.

We walk in and standing there at the urinal is the trumpet player with his pants around his ankles and his trumpet tucked under his arm. Just an unbelievable sight. Matt almost loses it, retreating to the stall to regain his composure. Left with no other options, I sidle up next to this man and go about my business, ignoring the fact that there is a half-naked trumpet player standing inches away from me.

I have often referred to this man as the toughest man I have ever met.

Monday, January 23

Bathroom Guys Ruin It For Me


MEMO TO THE three guys in the bathroom who make me want to hold it in forever

To the guy who leaves behind his reading material in the bathroom stall, I just don’t know what to say. Obviously you’ve got a big heart. I mean, you take a shit, you wipe, and the first thing you think is, “Hey, maybe the next person who comes in here to shit will want something to read.” So you fold the newspaper in half and you place it on the floor to the side of the stall.

I get it: you’re a nice guy. But come on, look at it from my point of view . . . first of all you were sitting on the toilet. You pulled your pants down, rested the newspaper against your bare legs and took a shit. I’m not trying to make you feel bad, but your bare genitals were inches away from that newspaper. I’m only stating the obvious.

Then you put the newspaper on the floor of the bathroom stall. I’d think twice of picking up a $100 off floor in a stall let alone a Daily News. And I have no way of knowing if you folded up the newspaper before or after you wiped, but in a situation like this I have to err on the side of caution. Bottom line – I’m just not touching that paper.

To be honest, this smacks of “giving for the sake of the giver.” You may come away feeling like a hero, but think about it: really, what am I getting out of this, other than the increased likelihood of contracting an STD?

To the guy who bursts into the bathroom like he’s hosting an improv show, I would shoot you in the chest if I carried a gun. There are four or five middle aged men either sitting on a bowl or standing at a urinal and you come flying in the bathroom like gangbusters all “What’s going on in here, boys?” What’s going on in here? It’s a bathroom! What do you think is going on in here?! Guys are doing everything possible to not acknowledge each other and you’re looking at people’s shoes under the stall saying, “Jeffrey, that you pooping in there? Give em hell slugger! Alright!”

My only question is, What the hell is going on in your head? What world do you live in where it’s OK to come bounding into the bathroom and turn it into a circus? In case you’re unsure of a few things, I’ll help you out: The guy in the urinal next to you doesn’t want to know that you dislocated your shoulder playing softball; offering to shake someone’s hand right as you leave the urinal isn’t funny, it’s dangerously unsanitary; thanking someone for “warming up” the toilet seat isn’t necessary; and, in general, the right place to ask a colleague how his son is doing in little league isn’t while standing next to him in a bathroom with your junk in your hands.

Finally, to the guy who brushes his teeth in the bathroom, you make me sick. Your zeal for personal hygiene has gotten so out of control that you put your toothbrush ON THE SINK and then you put it in your mouth. I wouldn’t put a toothbrush in my mouth if it even broke the plane of the doorway to the bathroom. Not even if you dipped it in that blue stuff the barber keeps his combs in. If you have a family, I regret their lives for them. I can only hope that you are a very cold, unemotional father who never even thinks about kissing his children before they go to bed.

China Is Kinky


Normally I would make a joke about how these giant pandas look like they are humping each other – some juvenile line like “Here, have a seat . . . Whoa! Didn’t know that was hanging out! Sorry, sorry. Here, try again . . . Whoa, slipped out again!” But they actually are mating, in a position that I will now forever refer to as “Giant Panda Style.”

Thursday, January 19

I Refuse To Learn From Other People’s Mistakes

Saying my job is boring is like saying that rocks are boring. Or paper is boring. It just makes no sense – because in order for something to be boring it has to at least have the potential to be entertaining and then fail to live up to that potential. My job isn’t boring for the same reason that a colonoscopy isn’t boring: because something that hurts this bad can be a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.

(I think if my firm had a motto it would be “We sacrifice enjoyment so you don’t have to.” Although I would probably be in charge of making it our motto, so I’d likely shorten it to “We sacrifice enjoyment!” because really that says it all; and I may waste things like ambition and opportunities to tell family members I love them, but I don’t waste words.)

But every so often my job throws me a proverbial bone. Back in the summer of 2000 I had a view outside my office window of a woman sunbathing out on her terrace. She was just close enough to know it was a woman and just far enough away that I could tell myself she was topless without admitting I was delusional.

Then there was the time in early 2002 when I convinced my bosses the office needed a scanner, which of course needed to be kept at my desk so that I might scan in my picture collection. And of course there was the Fall of 2003 when I had my wisdom teeth out. That really doesn’t have anything to do with work, but in general my days went much smoother on pain medication.

All that said, I don’t think anything compares to this.

Now I’m not dumb enough to write the name of the law firm I work for or to talk specifically about the stuff I work on here, but I definitely AM dumb enough to hint at it and write sarcastic remarks about my co-workers. So while I can’t say exactly what I’m doing now, I can say this: it involves a lawsuit and that lawsuit involves a blogger.

Part of me feels very bad about this because let’s just say that I’m not on the blogger’s side here. And while it’s not like we’re witches or socialists, I like to think that there’s a certain amount of camaraderie among bloggers (except for the photobloggers – I mean come on, write some words).

The other part of me, though, is fucking giddy over the fact that my job over the past few days has been to read blog posts and (I’m smiling just thinking about it) OTHER PEOPLES’ EMAILS looking for incriminating evidence.

I wish I could spend thousands and thousands of words gossiping here like a 15 year old girl about all these emails I’ve read. (Let’s just say within the first 10 emails I unearthed an office love affair.) But I’ll draw the line at vague references, not for the sake of my career but because if my bad luck got me fired from my job now I would have no way of knowing if Office Worker 1’s wife found out about how many orgasms Office Worker 2 had on that corporate getaway.

The flip side of all this is how reading this catalogue of damning evidence has made my own vulnerability so obvious. The mere thought of one of my bosses sitting at home, doing a Google search for Sarah Silverman’s breasts, finding my blog and their face immediately contorting into some hideous mask of shame and contempt upon seeing my picture in the upper right hand corner – well first the thought makes me laugh. But when I’m done laughing you can be sure I would vomit, or at least throw up a little in my mouth.

In an effort to make the whole thing a little more painless, I figured I would create a compendium of some of the funnier quotes my bosses could stumble across. Maybe if they find this they’ll appreciate my diligence and organization and spare me a lawsuit.

Lately I’ve been thinking I should quit my job.

- Great way to start out any post

Speaking of poop – what are the chances I could get a group of believers to flock to a log of my poop if it resembled a swaddling baby Jesus?

- Pretty self-explanatory

I even found three stamped, unsent letters stacked neatly under some neatly stacked documents with post-its reading things like, “Get this signed!” and “FYI ASAP!” which, even now, unhungover, makes no sense to me.

- On coming into work the day after being hungover at work

I’ve realized I’m a little afraid of Microsoft Excel. It’s like a really good prostitute – I can use it, and I do what I need to do, and that’s fine; but I also know there’s a whole world of stuff it can do that can’t even begin to fathom.

- Not only am I admitting I can’t use a program required for work, but I’m also likening it to a whore

Illegitimate Children Deserve Happiness Too, Sometimes

- Pretty much everything about this post

I don’t quite understand “office politics” because my co-workers are an old Jewish man who calls me into his office to ask if I know why his back hurts and a crazy elderly secretary who once told me that someone on “Survivor” was a “cunt” because she voted against the alliance. Clearly my office never got the memo on office politics.

- Actually, my bosses might agree with me on this one

Then make her get a job and get an apartment and get bitter at life. If she says she doesn't want to do any of these things, say, "No one wants to do these things. You think this is where i want to be in life!" Then make like you will hit her, but back away and brush her hair lovingly.

- Um . . .

I even put a set up a sexy photo slideshow as a screen saver.

- I don’t even think they’d let me back in the building

Let’s just say that if farting out in the open at your office is an indication that you don’t like where you work, I think I need a new job.

- So many suspicions confirmed

During our animated and slightly drunk conversation about the show, I was attempting to reenact a certain scene, so I pressed the side of my head against hers to imitate the conjoined twins. I don’t remember if that led directly to us making out, but I prefer to think that it did – because in the eventual movie of my life, that is going to be one of the best scenes ever put on film.

- At the trial, they will overrule my objection because this “goes to character.”

I bought her a locket for Valentine’s day and wrote a rap song for her, but she still left me for Richard Velázquez, who was a faster runner than me.

- Something about this sentence just screams “INCOMPETENT”

Scott puts sunblock on my back
Me: (cowboy accent) “I wish I knew how to quit you . . .”

- They don’t see those kind of movies

Basically, it’s to hold whatever book I read on the subway; and to portray myself as a more important person than I really am. Plus I sometimes take boxes of tissues from the office, which I suppose I would need a bag for anyway.

- What’s worse: stealing or being that cheap?

Tuesday, January 17

I Can’t Stop Writing About “CSI”

I understand that I’m pretty close to turning this into a “CSI” blog, one that keeps track of things like Grissom’s birthday (real and fake) and includes a “Forensics Tip of the Day” at the end of each post. The show is a drug and I’m addicted. But I promise, this will be the last “CSI” related post. I’m going cold turkey after this. Plus I figure 22 million people watch “CSI” every week, so at least I’ve got them.

And yes, I also understand that me writing about how cool “CSI” is now is like me writing an email to my stock broker friends saying, “Hey guys, have you heard of this company Microsoft?” But back when this show started I was still going out and getting drunk on Thursday nights. So I’m playing catch up. OK?

Five Things I Like About “CSI,” aka The Last Five Things I Will Say About “CSI” In This Blog:

1. The Extras

The casting room for this show must be awesome. Couldn’t you just see the parents from “Malcolm in the Middle” running into each other at the auditions like, “Come on! They’ll never cast us BOTH as Grieving Parents One and Two! Rock, Paper, Scissors?“

It seems like every episode The Girlfriend and I are having exchanges like:

TG: “Isn’t that the father from “My So-Called Life?””

Me: “No, it’s the father from 90210.”

It got to the point where The Girlfriend mistook a corpse for Judith Light.

Oh, and that hooker Nick had sex with? That was Krista Allen. Even a Mormon couldn’t fault him for doing it.




















2. The Coroner

For some reason, in all these crime shows no one comes off more believable than the coroner. You just take for granted that these people enjoy working with dead bodies. I think if there was a Crime Show Coroner-Off, the top three results would go like this:

#1 Dr. Al Robbins from “CSI” – The man could tell me I was dead due to blunt force trauma to the head, and I would believe him.

#2 Dr. Elizabeth Rodgers “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” – Easily the most underappreciated coroner on TV. I couldn’t even find a decent picture of her.

#3 Dr. Melinda Warner “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” – Easily the hottest coroner on or off TV.

3. Most Specialized Tools Ever

They have a machine to lift fingerprints off garbage bags. They have a machine dedicated to interpreting the grooves left behind by a pen when a person writes something down on a pad and then tears the top sheet off. How many times could you possibly use this a year? Five? They have a special machine dedicated to just about anything you could possibly want to do in a criminal investigation. You really get the feeling that no evildoer could escape the evidence. And that’s reassuring.

(Meanwhile, in the real world, cops cut out chunks of bloody carpet with sheetrock knives and FedEx them to Jersey for DNA analysis at “We Do Genetics, Inc.”)

4. The Back-story

I always thought the one thing wrong with “Law and Order” was that the characters were purposefully one dimensional. Sure they had attitudes and dispositions and the bad habit of spouting out bad wordplay over dead bodies. But from week to week you never felt like you got to know the characters any better.

In fact, the only real defining characteristic I can remember is that Lenny used to be an alcoholic and Green was addicted to gambling. Which is puzzling because the only black guy on “CSI” (Warrick) is also a gambling addict. What, did we run out of regular racial stereotypes and needed to spread some new ones?

Regardless, it makes “CSI” more interesting that you know that what happened last week is going to affect how everyone acts this week. Also, every girl on the show is a sex kitten. Seriously, watch Catherine for five minutes and tell me she doesn’t want to have sex with everyone on the show. And, if I were CSI Dan, I would totally let her. Even if she left the vest on. And then she would threaten me with a sexual harassment case and we would have a CSI face-off using the evidence to save our jobs. Anyway . . .

5. NO ONE CAN ESCAPE THE EVIDENCE!

5a. Watching this show not only makes you think that being a CSI is the coolest job in the world, it also makes you think you know everything about being a CSI. I’m not kidding – Turn off “CSI” and flip over to the evening news and tell me that you don’t instinctively say, “Man, I can’t believe those cops are ruining the crime scene walking around like that. They’re destroying evidence with every step. And how could they not catch this guy? You mean to tell me there are NO fibers left at the scene? Bullshit.”

Monday, January 16

Getting Back To Normal

After a tense weekend full of pain killers and way too many episodes of “CSI” I knew The Girlfriend was feeling better when, during an episode in which CSI Nick becomes implicated in the murder of a prostitute he was sleeping with, The Girlfriend turns to me and says in a fragile moan, "That's why I always say ‘Never sleep with a hooker.’ Because if you don't kill her, someone else will."

Friday, January 13

The Funny Part Will Be When All My Friends Feel Bad For Writing Me Emails Saying, “Why Haven’t You Updated Your Blog, Asshole?”

2006 is worse than I thought. At this point, it’s even worse than the infamous beginnings of 1999 when I got dumped, drove to Disneyworld with a friend where we got drunk, went to Universal Studios and “stole” a large stuffed alien from a child.

Later, in an act equal parts “24,” “The X-Files,” and “Gilmore Girls,” fueled by cheap vodka and the hurt I’d been bottling up inside, I ripped the alien’s head off when he refused to tell us why he had come to earth. Suffice it to say, that was the low point of the year.

That’s got nothing on 2006.

While I’m not one to write about my personal life (pause for laughter), I suppose everyone deserves and explanation as to why I haven’t written anything for a week. I’ll break it to you the same way that I told my mom, in a manner akin to soaking someone with a hose before throwing a match at them:

EVERYTHING’S FINE DON’T GET WORKED UP JUST STAY CALM EVERYTHING IS FINE!

I’ve been in the hospital the past few days. Not because I needed medical attention. Actually, it was The Girlfriend who did. Surgery actually. But like I said, EVERYTHING’S FINE. She’s back home now and I’m back at work and everything is normal except for the fact that now she has one kidney instead of two. (Kidding)

But I’d be lying if I said that I felt like I was back to normal. Not just the fact that I haven’t been in my home for five days or that I ate a hamburger the other night of questionable integrity that was made for me at closing time as the owner of the diner was shutting out the lights in the kitchen. But something like this really rattles you. It rips you from what you previously thought was your boring rut and makes you appreciate that rut like a Maui sunset.

It also got me to thinking about how weird it is to love someone. A while back I wrote that I thought having a girlfriend is like having a child you make love to. Yes, I hyperlinked that phrase – because as “Law and Order: SVU” as it sounds, I’m more convinced than ever that I’m right. Because like I said before, “It’s child-like in the sense that, first and foremost, before you even care what the person does or says, you don’t want anything bad to happen to them. And you go from there. And you wouldn’t immediately write them off if they, perchance, pooped their pants.” And seeing something bad happen to someone you love is as awful as my premonitions predicted.

Like I said though, everything is fine now. She’s recovering, and any gifts you would like to give her can be sent care of me. (Please note that she really likes chocolate chip cookies and she just got Playstation 2 and she loves sports game.) Also, spending these past few days in a hospital, I’ve learned a lot about myself and love and just how inaccurate shows like “Grey’s Anatomy” are. And I would consider it a failure on my part to not share what I’ve learned with you. If not about myself or the ruse that are primetime medical dramas, at least about the essence of love. It’s a free verse poem I wrote entitled “Love in Triage: No Emergency Here.”
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Love is resisting the urge to say “You owe me one,” when your girlfriend asks you to clean someone else’s pee off the bowl so she can use the bathroom.

Love is offering to put on a hospital gown as well, so your girlfriend won’t feel so different.

Love is making snide remarks at a nurse who you get the feeling is suggesting that your girlfriend is overreacting.

Love is sitting by someone just as they are about to go into surgery and saying, “I can’t believe this. I’m getting a pimple right here. This is awful.”

Love is not making fun of someone for asking the same exact question three times in a row while still in an anesthesia induced haze.

Making fun of them later on when they are coherent is also love.

Love is saying, “You’re the prettiest girl in this recovery room,” when clearly the morbidly obese woman two cots down with the bugger in her hair is rockin it.

Love is turning off the TV in the hospital room right as the guys from “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy” are about to reveal the newly redecorated apartment because your girlfriend just woke up and wants another lemon ice cup.

Love is sleeping in this bed in The Girlfriend’s apartment, made up of couch cushions and pink flannel sheets. It makes me feel like the most special little princess:



















Love is going out for sushi when you really want a hamburger. That has nothing to do with this particular situation, but I’m just saying.

Love is sitting in a waiting room reading the same sentence in a magazine five times because your mind is entirely somewhere else.

Love is emptying someone’s bed pan. (Just kidding, she didn’t have a bed pan. Besides, that’s not love that’s community service.)

Love is walking in the rain to Blockbuster to rent “CSI” Season One on DVD. Because sometimes love is selfish.

Love is sleeping in a chair that was designed by people who never wanted you to get too comfortable in their product.

Love is restraining yourself from punching your boss in the face when he says, “I was at the theater so late last night, I’m exhausted today!” because you know that your girlfriend can’t get food if you’re in jail.

Love is not laughing when the doctor says, “You may have exceptional gas for the next few days.”

But most of all, love is not caring about doing any of it. That’s love in triage, baby. No emergency here.
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(Back to our regularly scheduled drivel next week when I attack such important items as a review of the release of “Glory Road” – the story of one white man who discovers that black guys are really, really good at basketball.)

Friday, January 6

I Really, Really Love This

Did Jesus exist? Italian court to decide

Sounds like a case for “CSI” if you ask me. Like a two hour special with the casts of “CSI,” “CSI: Miami” and “CSI: New York” all joining forces to show how even Jesus can’t run from the evidence.

Plus it would fulfill what has become one of my most wished for entertainment interactions, where the hilariously monotoned Horatio Caine (David Caruso) crosses paths with the brilliant, no-nonsense Gil Grissom (William L. Petersen). I can see it now, Horatio spitting out one of his tagline phrases that succinctly sums up a blatant fact of life but when with his lifeless droll is meant to come off as important.

Horatio: “I don’t think . . . we will find a body this time. But a body . . . won’t always solve a crime.”

Grissom: (looking over the top of his glasses) “What the hell are you talking about?”

At which point Grissom does extensive chemical and DNA analysis on a piece of host taken from the tabernacle at church and proves transubstantiation to be a lie. The episode ends with him saying, “That’s the thing about belief – it may be free, but there’s always a price to pay.”

Thursday, January 5

2006 Is A Disappointment

I’m not one of those people who expects things to be different just because the year ends in a 6 instead of a 5 now. But when it gets to the point that I can say, “I’ve been sick since 2005,” I mean come on. Enough is enough. It been TWO YEARS! And just when I think I’m getting better, I run a random fever and my shit is so hard I could roll it down the hallway.

Part of me is convinced this is just an adverse reaction to the fact that it’s back to working five days a week now with no break in sight till President’s Day. The other part of me is convinced I have Bird Flu. (Are we still using that joke?)

In any event, the hilarious tales of me plodding my way through life will have to wait until I feel better. Also, I have done nothing in the past few days but sleep and watch “CSI.” Waaaay too much “CSI.” So I could probably write a post about determining TOD (time of death) using perimortum wounds, lividity and decomp, but that would require that I stop watching “CSI” for at least 15 minutes. And I can’t stop.

In the meantime, here’s a picture of Kevin Federline wearing the same shirt The Girlfriend bought my for Christmas. A word of advice to K-Fed: TRYING TO BE LIKE ME ISN’T GOING TO MAKE YOU COOL! IT’S NOT GONNA WORK!

Although I guess he wins, because his website has flash and mine doesn’t. Plus I can’t get that catchy song out of my head: “Keep messin’ wit my family and yo through . . .”