Swan Fungus

Thursday, May 22, 2008

On Online Girlfriends

My online girlfriend is hotter than your online girlfriend

Here's a shocker, "Web dating can be disappointing". No, this isn't the latest article penned by KABC's Rick Romero, it's a story that was published this morning by News.com.au, which I imagine is the Australian equivalent of (insert name of shitty American newswire). Lucky for us, we're learning about this phenomenon now, and not a decade ago, when it might have actually been relevant. It begins, "Internet daters beware -- witty emails don't lead to love." After that, well, isn't the rest fairly predictable?

Rather than rant about the inanity of the doctors who are quoted extensively regarding the perils of forming emotional attachments to unknown people, I figured I'd tell you all about my own experiences with Internet dating. I don't mean describing awkward situations involving girls I met on the Internet, I mean actual "online girlfriends," of which I've had many. Why? Because like every hot-blooded male before me, I was once a horny teenager who dreamt of ramming his penis into any living female that would allow me entrance, and because I happened to come of age at a time when the Internet got to be mainstream, and because I have no shame when it comes to discussing my awkward teen years. Names have been changed to protect identities.

Shelly: My first girlfriend that I didn't actually know in real life was a girl I talked to for five minutes at a Bat Mitzvah, wound up "dating" on-and-off for two years, and saw in person only once in the span of time during which we were "together". She lived in a neighboring town, but we were twelve years old so it wasn't like I could pick her up and take her out and fuck her in the back seat of my shitty 1985 Dodge Daytona. Instead, we used to talk on the phone for hours every night, and we even exchanged the L-word a few times. Our relationship became strained when I found out from a mutual friend of ours that she thought I was stalking her. How this was even possible for me to do without being old enough to have a means of transportation was beyond me. We broke up. Funny story: I bumped into her several years later at a University of Vermont freshman orientation. I thought our meeting again was hilarious, and wondered if she secretly thought I'd stalked her all through middle and high school until I found out which college she'd be attending. Funnier story: We wound up living in the same dorm freshman year, just a few doors away from each other. I wondered if she thought I went to the housing department and requested to live as near to her as possible.

Dana: Eh, I can use her real name, it was over ten years ago. My first (and only) true "Internet girlfriend" was a couple years older than I was (13), but she never knew my real age. She just thought I was wise beyond my years. She was from Utah, and used the word "hella" long before it became a part of the general lexicon. I used to write about our phone and Internet conversations extensively in my journal. I actually dry-heaved out of embarrassment when I was home last month and found an old printed-out email exchange of ours that included a picture of her. Speaking of which, we stopped talking after I saw a picture of her. She was, of course, immensely overweight.

Heather: A girl IM'd me one day saying she'd seen me walking through our school, and she mentioned that she liked my collection of "vintage" Smashing Pumpkins tour shirts. She was a freshman, and I was a sophomore. Without ever meeting, we had disgustingly long conversations over the Internet (no phone) and expressed all our innermost secrets to one another. She loved to try and get me to talk (er...type) dirty to her, which I thought was a huge ego boost. Anyway, we met in person one day and she gave me a handjob in the woods outside the high school. Our "relationship" was strained after that, and we gradually talked less and less through the years. I think she stopped going to our school at some point, but I distinctly remember going over to her house to smoke pot and watch Radiohead on SNL during the 2000 school year. That night she gave me a blowjob and didn't swallow. We don't talk anymore.

Bethany: I was hanging out at a female friend's house one night during my early high school years, and she accidentally left herself signed into America Online just before we were to start watching a movie. With the lights in the room dimmed, and everybody focused on the loud, big-screen TV, I surreptitiously began messaging all her friends to see what kind of mischief I could make. I wound up talking to a girl named Bethany about the Simpsons, and we continued the conversation once I returned to my home. We talked a lot, and I think at some point before we'd ever met she admitted she felt attracted to me. I remember the first time we met was at my friend Evan's house towards the end of the school year. It was awkward, but not as awkward as the next time we met, when we drunkenly made out in the foyer of her parent's place. During the summer of my freshman year of college I gave her a call and fooled around with her in an attempt to convince myself I needed to break-up with my then-girlfriend. Is that cheating? Eh, whatever. The best part of this particular web dating experience was that it inevitably led to one of the greatest sexual mishaps of my life. Yes, I'm talking about the time (three years ago?) I pulled out in the middle of horribly messy drunken sex and left her laying in bed without saying goodbye. Before you call me an asshole...I had my reasons. Anyway, we haven't spoken since.

Unlike many of my friends and peers, I've never used an Internet dating service, so my experiences are somewhat limited. I do know that my sister once had a handsome young Jewish man ask her if she would stand on his face, because he was aroused by the thought of all her weight coming down on his face. Another friend was forced to confront a girl he'd met online concerning her expressing love for him before they'd met. Man, there sure are a lot of unhinged people in the world. And according to this entry I guess I'm one of them.

Landing - How Did You Feel? - (buy this album)
Tengir-Too - Gul (Flower) - (buy this album)
Dead C - The New Snow - (buy this album)
Iggy Pop - Platonic - (buy this album)
Rahim Alhaj - Taqsim Maqm Mukhalif - (buy this album)

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

On The Eve Of My Departure

One year ago this week I left the East Coast for Los Angeles. It is weird to think that I have not returned home since then, not in a homesick way, but in a "Huh. I wonder what changes I would find in the city or my hometown" way. For as long as I can recall, I have been prone to daydreaming. During these past twelve months, I have often caught myself trying to picture the drives to various places I used to frequent when I was living at home. I pondered landmarks that were used to estimate times of arrival. I tried to predict how buildings sites have changed. I question my ability to drive somewhere without getting lost.

Tomorrow I'm flying back East for ten days of reunion with family and friends. I'm looking forward to seeing those who I have not seen since my departure, and visiting some of my favorite spots in New York and New Jersey. Several day-trips are already planned, and you can guarantee I will be blogging about the trip in great detail, just as I would if I were a stranger in a strange land. The only difference is, this time the strange land happens to be where I spent the majority of my first quarter-life.

April 27th, 2007 to April 30th, 2008. To me that feels like a long time. It has not been a multi-year odyssey. My story would pale in comparison to that of a soldier stationed overseas for several years returning home from battle. I'm just a douchebag who has spent the majority of these 368 days getting drunk and fucking around instead of trying to get my life together. Although positive changes have occurred in recent months, the truth is that I feel like kind of a dick for not making it home sooner. I was offered a trip home at Thanksgiving that I turned down, and one earlier this month that I also turned down. Like I said, it's not as if I'm Odysseus making a ten year voyage back to Ithaca after fighting in the the Trojan War, but there are a lot of people who I am looking forward to seeing, and a lot of activities are planned that have me excited.

I'll be sure to write tomorrow from my old bedroom, in the company of my East Coast record collection, with some fancy beers that have been cellared for the last year. Stay tuned for the adventures of boy blunder as he returns to the land of his birth.

***

In other news, I'm sure my happiness about going home is nowhere near as great as fans of Jimi Hendrix are to hear that Vivid will imminently be releasing a Hendrix sex tape. The New York Times has a story about it, using the tape as a talking point for the "surge of voyeuristic entertainment that has swept Hollywood." I think that means they too are miffed about the celebrity culture boom that has overtaken the country, but they probably don't want to lambaste their readership for enjoying celebrity gossip when the article itself is based on gossip about a dead celebrity. In other words, the Times sucks.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Speech Therapy

I have this problem. It's unlike previous problems I've written about, but just-as if not more-so prevalent in my daily life. Just like my un-photographic memory, it has been with me my entire life. The only difference is...I've known about it the entire time. It wasn't something I discovered on my own as I aged. The problem, of course, is a speech impediment. As a child, it was so bad it actually required speech therapy.

From the way my parents describe it, you would think I was retarded. Literally, I don't think I could say half of the alphabet correctly. My first word, if you believe my parents, was "fire truck." Of course, I couldn't pronounce what in hindsight I refer to as the Wheel Of Fortune consonants: "R", "S", "T", "L", and "N", so it sounded more like, "fi-yah fuck." To make matters worse, I was a touch dyslexic, stuttered, also had a lisp. Things were hard for my retarded self. My older sister Elissa had to endure my calling her "Yitha". I haven't watched any of my childhood videos in quite some time, but they are truly a lesson in improper speech.

As I made my way through pre-school, I believe I got by purely because of my adorableness and my giant wang. There's absolutely no reason I should have made any friends what with the way I butchered the English language. Still, I was always a popular kid with both the dudes and the chicks. This, in spite of my utter failure to speak like a normal human being.

As I entered kindergarten, a strange thing happened. It was a voice from above that yearned to see me grow up into a not-retard. Fate had conspired to change my future for the better. The voice was not that of some holy deity, but one of my neighbors. They were named Holly and Jill, and they were three years older than I. According to my mother, they use to torture me incessantly, but I did not recognize their cruelty and loved them for the attention they showed me. One day, either Holly or Jill approached my mother and told her that if I didn't learn how to speak properly, I would be bullied upon reaching elementary school. They said it happened to someone in their class.

My neurotic mother instantly freaked out and decided that I was going to enter speech therapy. I don't remember my instructor's name, but she was a private tutor who worked out of her house. I still didn't think there was anything wrong with me as a child, but I was scheduled several lessons per week. The only three memories I have of this stage of my life include the following: sitting in the bathtub with peanut butter on the roof of my mouth to practice saying the letter "L", a hand-made board game shaped like an "S" that was supposed to teach me how not to lisp, and a small tin canister with a coin slot on top that I "won" at some point during my schooling. It was my first bank.

Eventually I learned how to conquer my slight stutter, the lisp, and the retarded pronunciation issues. All that remains of these horrible "dark ages" is my oral dyslexia. I'm constantly saying shit like "Zed Leppelin" or "voist magina". One time I even called Rob Schneider "Rob Farkle" while in the middle of a dice game. If you spend enough time in my presence, you can pretty much count on hearing me mess up everything I try to say. What's worse is, I get self conscious about it when someone calls me on it, and then the slight stutter and the mispronunciation issues return. I might never truly get over my speech issues. Maybe that's why I write.

I must admit, I get a kick out of my inability to talk. I never know what I'm going to say next. Unlike my un-photographic memory, I think my vocal retardation is something I won't mind enduring for the rest of my miserable, God-forsaken life.

***

The contest I began Friday has ended, so you can stop commenting or e-mailing me your list of the ten worst concerts you've ever seen. I was quite hesitant to start offering prizes for your contributions again, because the last time I tried it only four people entered the contest, and the only requirements were that you e-mail me your name and address. It was really, really close but Patrick from Chicago, who had the unfortunate luck of seeing Matchbox 20, Lilth Fair, Deep Blue Something (holy shit!) and Semisonic squeaked out a victory over Benjamin, whose bad-concert list included Loverboy, Three Doors Down and Smash Mouth. Jesus, you people have really seen some shitty bands. Congratulations Patrick, you've won a copy of the new Thalia Zadek CD, to-be-released tomorrow by Thrill Jockey. The album, by the way, sounds great.

Stay tuned for your next chance to win: On Friday the 25th there will be another contest, and this time the prize is a package deal: The brand-spankin' new Clash DVD "Live Revolution Rock" and the band's CD The Singles.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Quake, And The Crystal Method Method

Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when everything just felt right. It was a time of great happiness, perhaps unparalleled in my personal history. At moments of great distress I like to close my eyes and reflect on those joyous nights. If I focus hard enough, I can recall the taste of bakery-fresh, multi-colored sprinkles cookies and Pepsi, the smell of Glade vanilla-scented candles, and the chills that ran down my spine as I rounded dimly-lit corners or proceeded through teleporters. I speak, of course, about the countless nights my friend Matt and I spent massacring online gamers in Quake.

Released in 1996, Quake was a Wolfenstein or DOOM fan's dream. Huge, elaborate levels, wonderfully tenebrous and gothic-as-hell, the suspense of navigating through each episode was enough to make one's skin crawl. Single-player mode was fun, but Multiplayer mode was where the Quake was transformed from a regular old anti-social hobby into pure obsession.

Now, before I totally geek out, I think it is imperative to state that I was not a computer nerd in high school. I was something of a chameleon. I could and did get along with all cliques. My friends and I drank and smoked pot and hated all our schoolmates equally, just like everybody else. I was not some kind of social outcast or loser who sought solace in the warm glowing glow of his computer monitor.

That said, let's talk more about Quake. I'd go so far as to say it was the Dungeons & Dragons of the '90s. Matt disagrees with my contention, preferring to compare Magic: The Gathering to Dungeons & Dragons. I guess it's hard to argue with him on that one. Anyway, Quake was released a good two or three years before cable modems became prevalent, so Matt and I generally had to connect via dial-up to the dedicated server. On some nights, I would bring my Dell desktop over to Matt's house and connect to him through a hub so that we could play head-to-head. The most popular multiplayer mode was called "deathmatch." In deathmatches, the goal is to kill as many people as possible. Sometimes there were teams involved, but usually you just shot anything that moved. I'd say Matt and I were very comparable deathmatch players. We each had our favorite levels, which created a sort-of home-field advantage, but for the most part we were equals. My personal favorite style of multiplayer game was called "capture the flag." It reminded me of Child's Play 3, which always scared the shit out of me as a youth.

With Quake, losing oneself in the game was all about ambiance. Being up late...Sifl & Olly playing in the background...the dim lighting of Matt's basement...the weird, crackling music of our chosen soundtrack. Maybe we couldn't always agree on what level to play, but the one thing Matt and I always agreed on was music. Yeah, I guess it was pretty cool that the soundtrack was written by Trent Reznor. It was sinister as hell, but it wasn't enough to keep our adrenaline pumping, especially not with all those blood curdling screams whenever a player died, or the awkward cum-guzzling sound that accompanied an underwater death. Our epinephrine levels craved something faster and heavier. At Matt's suggestion, I purchased the Crystal Method CD Vegas. It turned out to be the perfect score for a game such as Quake.

There really was something magical about the combination of Quake Vegas. I've never liked techno music, and I still don't. The big beats and fusion of rock and hip-hop seems like the complete opposite of that murky Trent Reznor soundtrack, but it worked perfectly. Like I said, good ambiance was paramount to a quality Quake session. "Trip Like I Do," "Keep Hope Alive" and especially "Bad Stone" always seemed to fit together with seemingly any Quake level, and any style of gameplay. To say that Vegas made the experience would be lofty praise. Perhaps too lofty. But it worked oh-so-fucking well.

The switch from dial-up to cable connections saw the number of hours logged in deathmatches skyrocket. Late nights turned into early mornings. Twelve-packs of Pepsi turned into twenty-four packs. There was also the night Matt's mom found a box overflowing with porn that his older brother's best friend had bequeathed to Matt. That was pretty hilarious.

To make a long story short, the sequels to Quake all sucked and until today I haven't listened to the Crystal Method in maybe eight years. I found a clean copy of Vegas on vinyl, and will be auctioning it off on eBay along with a copy of the very rare and very out-of-print Bright Eyes EP entitled, Every Day And Every Night. You can view (and bid) on my auctions by clicking here.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Jim Koch, I Like You

This weekend was the 5th annual Extreme Beer Fest in Boston. I couldn't go, seeing as how I'm living 3,000 miles away now, but I remember fondly the last time I attended what could only be described as a huge, nerd-filled drinking contest. It was two years ago, and I drove up to Bristol, Rhode Island, where my friend Ian attended law school. I described the entire weekend in detail here on the blog, but I'm sure it wasn't my finest moment as a writer seeing as how I was intoxicated pretty much from the moment I arrived on Friday until several hours after I left work the following Monday evening. Oh, the beers that were consumed that weekend. Sam Adams Millenium, Dogfish Head World Wide Stout...we got even drunker at the Sam Adams brewery before even venturing over to the Extreme Beer Fest. Once there, we had our fill of brews likes Boston Beer Works Peanut Butter Porter, Sam Adams Utopias ($100 per bottle -- for a beer), Dogfish Head Fort and Festina Lente, Avery Brewing Co's "The Reverend," "The Kaiser" and "The Czar". Founders Brewing Co's "Kentucky Breakfast" and "Breakfast Stout". Even that weird Stone Coast Sunsplash Golden Ale with the jalepeno peppers in each can. That one was fucking weird. To end the evening, Dogfish Head founder (and Muhlenberg College alum) Sam Calagione gave a prepared speech called "Fuck Wine." I don't remember what it was about, but I remember him crawling through the crowd pouring lots and lots of free, high ABV beers for everyone who was there.

Anyway, Ian said this weekend wasn't as good as the last, so I don't feel like I missed anything. One of the more interesting speeches this year came from Jim Koch, the man who founded the Boston Beer Company (brand name Samuel Adams). Although Ian didn't attend the afternoon session of the festival, I imagine Koch took a moment to discuss the email he sent to Brewers Associate members last Thursday. Apparently he has decided to respond to the large hops shortage that has plagued craft brewers and home brewers this year by sharing his own company's stash with brewers who are struggling to find hops this year. Talk about a totally unselfish move. The guy runs one a gigantic public company, his beers are about as easy to find as Bud or Coors, and he's decided to offer 20,000 pounds of hops to small brewers...at cost. I think that's pretty noble and quite awesome. You can read all the Hops Sharing Program on the Samuel Adams website, or you can do what I'm going to do, which is go out and buy some Sam Adams. I might not be able to find bottles of Chocolate Bock out here in California, but I sure as hell can find enough of his beers to reward Mr. Koch's selflessness while drinking a beer that doesn't taste like complete shit. So, I implore you, if you find yourself at a bar this week and your only options are Bud, Miller, Coors, or Sam...drink the Sam.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Johan Santana, LOST, More U2 News and The Worst MP3s Ever Posted

Words cannot express the excitement that coursed through me yesterday when I received a text message from Ian informing me of the pending Johan Santana trade. It was like a shot of adrenaline. My first thought: pitchers and catchers report to camp in about two weeks. On that day, Mr. Santana will for the first time adorn whatever hideous new blue-and-orange Spring Training uniform the Mets have devised as a cheap marketing ploy to sell more jerseys. But today's post is not a missive directed towards money-hungry front office goons, today is about the great "what ifs" that go hand-in-hand with any blockbuster sports trade.

The Hardball Times declare the Mets are the clear winners in this trade, but worry that a rotation of Santana/Martinez/Hernandez/Perez/Maine might not match what San Diego (Peavy/Young/Maddux/Prior) or Arizona (Webb/Haren/Davis/Owings) will have in a potential post-season series...Jayson Stark reminds us that only the Mets, Red Sox and Indians will boast starting rotations that feature three pitchers coming off fifteen-win seasons last year, and that Santana has led his league (a more hitting-dominated league) in fewest base runners allowed per nine innings (WHIP) four years in a row -- and now he'll be pitching in a pitcher's park in a pitcher's league...Rob Neyer guesses that Santana will dominate the National League like Greg Maddux did in the mid-1990s and Randy Johnson did five years later...One interesting fact. When Santana started games for the Twins, the team was 95-47. During the same stretch of time, when anyone else pitched, the team was 325-323. That's a winning percentage of almost .700 versus a winning percentage of .500.

One of the worst pieces of writing I've read as a lead-in for tomorrow night's season premier of Lost is available on the Entertainment Weekly website. But don't bother reading it, it was clearly written by someone without a strong grasp on the English language. The author, who writes like a twelve year old girl reviewing a Backstreet Boys concert, lists several things that we need to keep in mind in order to appreciate this eight-episode shortened season. Too bad his list includes crap like Naomi, "who told the castaways that she was part of a rescue team hired by Penny to find Desmond," but who could be full of crap. Oh, and Locke threw a hunting knife into her back. Yeah, guy. I'm sure her rotting corpse will play a really big role this season. I think we need to pay more attention to the parapsychology aspect of the show, rather than character development or back-stories. Things are going to get pretty crazy, I imagine. I can't wait. Lost!

Apparently U2's official blog posted a link to the story I penned yesterday about how Bono and the bands managers are two turds that weigh pretty much the same amount of Courics. I must say, I have to give some props to whoever runs that website, because they chose to a post a link here in spite of the continued insults I sling at "the ~~biggest~~ shittiest rock band in the world."

Whoever posted this ad on Craigslist's Missed Connections needs to step forward and reveal yourself.

Last but not least, I wanted to share with you some of the worst MP3s ever recorded. The artist? Me. The songs? Horrible. Pathetic. Choose your adjective. The first three songs were recorded for my Boobafellatio 2: This Time It's Personal album, mentioned first in this post. A brief reminder. In 1998 or 1999, there was a January or February snow-day, and I stayed home from school. Sitting on my computer all day, I began to go slightly stir crazy. I decided to improvise a series of songs and put them together as a concept album. All the songs were about devious sexual acts (what else do you expect from a 15 year old boy?). There's a story arc; it's pretty easy to follow. Brenda and Billiam are a married couple, he beats her and gets sent to jail, turns gay, turns back, gets released, wants her back, but she's already turned gay. I recorded the songs into Windows Sound Recorder by playing and singing into my computer monitor's microphone. You can hear me clicking buttons if you listen closely. The album sold almost 20 copies on the now defunct MP3.com website. One of the songs cracked the top thirty power pop tunes on the website's daily chart.

Brenda's Song
Prison Sex (Baby)!
Billiam's Song

The next two songs were recorded shortly after, in the basement of my friend Bret, with my first band, the Ian Weinberger Trio. We decided to do a full-on cover of Weezer's blue album. The whole thing, start to finish. The only problem was, we did it in standard tuning and we weren't very good. We'd never recorded anything before, and it shows. I'd never sung anything before in my life, and it shows. Bret sang "backup vocals," which did not include a single attempt at harmonizing with me. Also, I pretty much learned how to play guitar in order to go through with this project. Ian handled almost every guitar part. The whole thing was a fucking mess. We tried to replicate the cover art by standing in front of a tan-colored wall, then using the paint bucket tool in MS Paint to make it blue. Too bad Ian wore tan shorts. Whoops, no more legs on the cover of our album! The whole thing was a train-wreck from start to finish. You'll love it.

IW3 - The World Has Turned And Left Me
IW3 - Undone (The Sweater Song)
IW3 - Say It Ain't So

I await your comments...

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Artificial Artificial Paradises: More Mind-Expanding, Brain Cell-Murdering Livejournal Entries

This past July, I vowed to take the occasional stroll down Livejournal lane, and share with you some old missives that were written when I was really, really, really trashed. Over the span of four years, I fancied myself a young Thomas deQuincy, Aldous Huxley, or Baudelaire, but with no insight into the human condition, and a penchant for spending eight paragraphs talking about a cheeseburger. The Livejournal elicited many comments from friends that expressed pity, and often sounded like goofy online interventions. Perhaps the most vocal of my friends was Zoya, who told me that when I'm strapped for ideas on this here blog I should rummage through the archives for some of my old writings. After all, it'll probably be better than faking my way through a post when I can't will myself to be funny enough for you. According to her, including things like IM transcripts or old journals in a blog post is all the rage these days. So now, with a sparkly-clean, sound mind (that can only come from sobriety) I'm ready to glance over my old Livejournal entries.

Today's re-post is taken from an IM conversation that was supposed to occur between Matt and myself, but Matt was away from his computer at the time, so it wasn't much of a conversation. It begins with me giddily quoting lines from an episode of Mr. Show that was airing on TBS. There was a time when I was in college that TBS would air uncensored Mr. Show episodes with Futurama, Family Guy and Oblongs on early Saturday or Sunday mornings. It was totally a television block for stoners. Anyway, after two harmless quotes, things got really weird. I often wonder what Matt thought when he returned to his computer and found this all waiting for him. I don't recall ever talking about this incident with him, which leads me to believe that he simply chose to forget it ever happened. I know if I was in his position, I'd do the same thing. That's why I'm sharing it with you now. Enjoy!

01-28-04 @ 3:28am "hey! ultimate warrior, back the fuck up."

2:37am
the yellow ribbons are for the young people
the orange ones are for the companions
2:58am
my name is terry
and my arms are half there!
but that doesn't keep me from riding on the snare!!!!!
3:20am
my sister totally showed me this thing she found when i walked into the house
some bag from a trip to mexico she hadn't cleaned out in years
and it had like, weird colored fucking....
face paint
in it.
that's really like, sun repellent.
but i saw it as face paint.
so
parents put it on their kids when they're on the beach and kids don't mind because it looks "cool" to have weird green lines under your eyes or something, magenta and "hot orange" and "electric yellow" were the cool colors
under your eyes, on your lips, wherever kids could get burned on their little faces
so
i took the little tube from her
and ran upstairs and started smearing it into my skin
and laughing manically all the while
(i took a dozen or so bong hits before this all started)
anyway
before i know it my face is fucking GONE
cause there's so much thick white gooey shit on there
and i'm laughing
because i'm william wallace
or the ultimate warrior
or some shit
and then i read the sun repellent removal instructions
and find out it's fucking waterproof
and needs to be in water for like
at least 40 minutes
to get it off
anyway
so i started yelling at myself in the mirror
rubbing my skin raw
to get it off my face
and still laughing so hard and loud
and i found it oddly fascinating
that i was doing all this
my father never once woke up
in fact, he's snoring more loudly now than before
you could reenact the civil war here and he'd slee tpruough it
anyway
what kind of fucking idiot rubs oily white fucking suntain lotion
into his face
at three in the morning
intead of just going to tsleep or something.
this kind of idiot
the kind i am
idiot

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

On Boobafellatio

I'd like to spend today briefly informing you about a word I created and submitted to the popular website Urban Dictionary. I've never before attempted to introduce a word into the mainstream lexicon, though I did play a very large role in re-introducing the word "douchebag" into common vernacular at the start of the 21st century. Nothing exciting happened today -- I spent the majority of my day working -- so it's a perfect opportunity for me to speak about this phenomenon that is very near and dear to my heart. I'm talking, of course, about boobafellatio.

It started in the late nineties. Although to be honest, I don't really remember when it started. Or how. I just know that my friend Adam and I started using the word "boobafellatio" a lot to describe the act of "titty-fucking." Whatever, we were pretty immature, and the word seemed really apt for some reason. Like, "titty-fucking" seemed so far removed from the act of putting your penis between a girls breasts and vigorously humping on her that there needed to be a new word that best described the move.

Fast-forward to my sophomore year of high school. Or, maybe it was my junior year. I don't remember. We had a day-off, and I decided that instead of homework, I was going to press the record button on my PC's Sound Recorder program, and improvise a series of songs for a concept album that I could sell on MP3.com. I wrote and recorded five songs in the span of a few hours. The general story was about a husband and wife living in a trailer park in Florida. The husband beats the wife, goes to jail, she becomes a lesbian, and he pledges his love to her upon his release only to find that she's left him for another woman. I titled the album Boobafellatio 2: This Time It's Personal. It sold almost twenty copies on the amateur music retail site. The cover art was an MS Paint drawing of a set of semen-covered breasts.

Since then I've continued to support the widespread use of the word "boobafellatio" in all instances commonly reserved for "titty-fuck". It's taken the better part of a decade, but I feel vindicated now that boobafellatio has found its way into the Urban Dictionary. You should all click over to the website and give it the thumbs up, and -- of course -- use the word whenever possible. Together you and I will make boobafellatio a part of everyday conversation!

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

The Infidel Sends Well-Wishes

When I was twelve years old, my mother, sister and I went on a secular tour of Israel. We visited a large number of Christian, Jewish and Muslim holy sites. One such a site was the church in Bethlehem where Jesus was born. These days, the area is patrolled by Palestinian police and (I think) members of the public are no longer allowed to enter the church. Maybe they are, I don't know exactly. The point is, I'm glad I had the opportunity to see a place that so many millions of people deeply appreciate on a spiritual level. And today is Christmas, and though I am a heathen, I thought I'd share that little tidbit of personal history with you as a lead-in for my wishing all those who celebrate a Merry Christmas.

For all those who celebrate, "Merry Christmas!"

I went out with Sari and Phoebe and Leon last night. Dressed as a giant stuffed mouse. Little Joy didn't know what to make of me, I think. The hipsters tried to keep their walls up, but the plush mouse suit brought out long-dormant feelings of genuine happiness from many jaded douchebags. A bunch of them even asked to pose for pictures with me:

Thursday, November 01, 2007

On Dead Brain Cells And The Lottery

My brain is barely functioning today. If I turn my head too quickly, I can feel fried synapses rattling around in my skull like burnt light-bulb filaments. I guess it's a good thing I don't have a job. I woke up on the couch this morning after a few hours of sleep, then retired to my bedroom for about ninety more minutes of rest. When I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror I felt like the saddest, dirtiest whore in the whole wide world. Makeup stained checks, cocktail dress hanging pathetically around my waist...the very definition of the word "mess."

When I was in Mr. Milan's fifth grade class, all of my friends were either in Mrs. Bier's or Mrs. Heller's classes. Because of this, I started hanging out with bad seeds and getting in trouble. I stopped paying attention in class. I would zone out frequently. One day, during a particularly boring lecture on something that was of little importance, my thoughts turned to the lottery. I'd recently visited my sickly grandmother's apartment in Hackensack, and the floor of her bedroom was littered with old, faded lottery tickets. She used to play the Pick-3 religiously. At that moment in Mr. Milan's class, the numbers 1, 0 and 4 randomly popped into my head. I thought that if I were old enough to play the lottery, I would definitely use those numbers. The next weekend I went for breakfast at Seymour's with my mother, and while she paid I studied the chart on the wall behind the register with the week's winning lottery numbers. Sure enough, 1, 0, and 4 had come up in the previous few days. Even though I am of age, I've only once played the lottery, and never tried the Pick-3. I still wonder what would happen if I played those numbers.

Which leads me to my main point: somebody just published a pattern analysis of MegaMillions Lottery Numbers. I was arguing with someone the other day about lottery odds, and how nonsensical it is to play a number between one and nine because mathematically the odds are greater that a double-digit number will be drawn over a single-digit number. To spare you from having to read the whole document, I'll sum it up here for you.

Ball #1 - 7, 5, 1, 2, 3 represent 39.1% of the winning numbers.
Ball #2 - 13, 12, 17, 25, 10, 18, 20, 14, 21 represent 40.77% of the winning numbers.
Ball #3 - 20, 35, 31, 25, 37, 26, 32, 24, 23, 38 represent 39.06% of the winning numbers.
Ball #4 - 51, 42, 46, 36, 48, 40, 38, 49 represent 40.77% of the winning numbers.
Ball #5 - 53, 54, 56, 52, 55 represent 42.92% of the winning numbers.
MegaBall - 4, 42, 35, 36, 1, 21, 10, 22, 15, 7, 5, 30, 41, 37 represent 44.64% of the winning numbers.

The numbers 46, 48, 14, 5, 52, 38 and 51 seem to have the shortest amount of time between "wins," meaning they are numbers that have repeated frequently over the past few years. The number 35 has come up most frequently since data collection began.

There's no mention of my single-digit versus double-digit theory (which I find shocking, because usually researchers rush to prove and disprove theories that I espouse in casual conversation with friends), but I will continue to stand firmly by my assertion that if there are more numbers between 10-56 than there are between 1-9, odds are you're going to win by picking only double-digit numbers.

- Today is the last day I will be accepting feedback on the Evanslist entry from last Thursday. I think I have 10 or 11 e-mails I need to write, including three or four to people I've never met before. Those should be interesting. I've sent personalized top ten lists to Zoya, Ian and Marika already. Remember, leave a comment with your e-mail address and the name of the top ten list you find most humorous, and I'll send you a very special TOP TEN THINGS I LIKE ABOUT YOU / TOP TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

...Because Life Is Precious

Time out. I think we all need to take a moment to reflect on this past year, and share how each of our lives has changed in the 365 days since the death of Steve Irwin. Oh yeah, you probably forgot all about that, didn't you? You forgot all about rare stingray attacks, and the fact that their barbs are sharp enough to kill a man. You just figured stingrays were those weird, flat-looking things you can touch at the aquarium. What's worse, you forgot all about Steve's poor widow Terri, and their two children, son Robert and daughter Bindi. Nine-year old Bindi has risen to fame in the wake of her father's death, championing conservation, making public appearances, and generally appearing as the awkward, pixieish weirdo-child who is primed to follow in her daddy's footsteps. Her dead daddy.

I'm going to be honest -- I had a hard time coping with the news of Steve Irwin's death. I couldn't sleep for days, and I secretly plotted to blow up all of the seven seas in an attempt to rid the world of foul creatures like stingrays. They're a burden on our oceans, and they're cold-blooded killers that will stop at nothing to ensure all our famous wildlife television personalities have their lives cut short. Steve Irwin was 44 years old, a devoted husband and loving father, who swam with sharks and touched deadly snakes and crocodiles and shit. What the fuck have you done with your life? Can you see why I was so depressed by the news of Steve's unexpected, unconscionable death?

Steve's show was about more than just a hyperactive manchild running through the wilderness fucking with nature and begging to be mauled or poisoned. Sure, it was fun to watch at three in the morning after a long night of bong hits and diner food, but it was also about education. How else are children going to learn about jumping on top of reptiles with powerful jaws and capturing them? How else would I have learned that the Nile crocodile is the world's second largest species of crocodile in the world? For fuck's sake. Won't somebody please think of the children?

I would appreciate it if everyone left a short comment in memory of Steve. I will forward all the responses to whatever e-mail address Bindi or Terri provide on their website. If you want to make a donation at your local synagogue, just tell me the name and how much you donated, and I will forward that information along to Bindi and Terri as well. Godspeed, friend.

Friday, July 13, 2007

Artificial Artificial Paradises: Mind-Expanding, Brain Cell-Murdering Livejournal Entries

It's days like these I wish more people would offer to contribute to this page...

Remember Livejournal? I mean, you had one right? And if you didn't, you had a Geocities website or a Tripod website or a Fortunecity website where you wrote about the events of your life, right? Well, I think I had all of those. I had a Geocities page that contained a transcription of my family history as delivered by two drunk uncles at a religious gathering, a series of inside jokes and quotes for friends to read, and a short story about hunting a yeti (complete with pictures of a naked yeti who had the biggest dick MSPaint would allow me to draw). I had a Fortunecity page dedicated to one of my first bands (the page is still up, but I will not link to it out of sheer embarrassment), and a Tripod page about AIM etiquette (which is still up, and once received 20,000 visitors in a week thanks to a nice link from CollegeHumor.com). I also had my Livejournal.

The Livejournal, which is now inactive (and deleted from all the Internet, hopefully), was basically a place for me to write down random thoughts when I was really, really, really trashed. I think I fancied myself a young Thomas deQuincy, Aldous Huxley, or Baudelaire, but with less insight into the psyche, and a penchant for spending eight paragraphs talking about a cheeseburger. In any event, it elicited many comments from friends that expressed pity, and often sounded like a goofy online intervention. When I told Zoya today that I had officially run out of ideas for this site (after 837 entries), she said I should take the occasional "stroll down Livejournal lane" when tapped for ideas, and to tell you the truth, it'll probably be more interesting than anything else I could think of to write about on such days. According to her, including things like IM transcripts or old journal entries in a blog post is all the rage these days. So now, with a sparkly-clean, sound mind (that can only come from sobriety) I'm ready to glance over my old missives. Here is a brief, whimsical, and quite tame entry of which I'm definitely not proud:

5-14-05 @ 2:02am "i"
i am so fucking fried right now. i was playing this game where i take bong rips upstairs in a closet, and then trying to run downstairs and into the living room in time to blow smoke in the girl's face. I never made it. I kept choking as I flew down the stairs. Here's an idea:

ilya: http://gd.times.lv/post.htm this shits from lithuania
evan: nice!
evan: what shirt?
evan: ???
evan: WHAT SHIRT?
ilya: SHIT
ilya: the website
ilya: not a SHIRT you dumbass
ilya: you need to sober up

Friday, July 06, 2007

A Day In The Life: Maestro Fuzztain Hunt

So I was walking down Sunset today and I happened upon a strip of vintage music stores. Gear is so expensive these days, unless you have a job, I suppose...

I talked to one snobby store owner about my Jazzmaster, and while I tried to explain the modifications it has received since 1960, he only wanted to talk about the depreciating value of the instrument. Ah, collector scum -- making conversation about anything difficult since...well, forever.

The next store had a long display case of vintage effects pedals, not unlike 30th Street Guitars in New York, only it was a countertop display case, not an entire wall. In any event, they had two nice Maestro Fuzztain pedals prominently displayed in one case. I was reminded of my Fuzztain, and how I was able to use it once before it broke and I shipped it to Chicago to be fixed. It's still in Chicago, missing several key parts. By the way:

WANTED
One (1) or more CTS 25K audio taper potentiometer. PC-mount. Odd pin configuration. e-mail for details.

I turned to the young kid who was working there, and told him about my pedal and how I was looking for more broken Fuzztains that I could use for parts. He informed me that the only ones they had were in good working order. Too bad, I said. I then made the mistake of asking how much they were selling for these days.

$450

Jesus fucking Christ!

I called Mrs. Fix-It in Chicago (that's not her real name) and told her the story. We talked a bit about the pedal and other stuff, and then I found her a schematic so she could attempt to order the missing piece.

The moral of this story is...If anyone has a broken Fuzztain and they want to sell me the above-mentioned component, that would be great.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Accident Park

In case you haven't read, a thirteen year old girl visiting the Six Flags amusement park in Louisville, Kentucky had her feet severed by a ride yesterday. While on the Superman Tower of Power -- which drops passengers 154 feet at 54 mph, stopping 20 feet above the pavement -- a cord became wrapped around her feet, amputating them just below the ankle. Both feet were recovered and sent to the hospital along with her following the accident. The teenager has since undergone surgery, but no information has been released about what the surgery entailed or how she is recovering.

Upon reading this story, I was reminded of two things: A family friend who dated the owner of a huge amusement park on the East Cost, who told me that he divulged information about the park's insurance plan, and that his premium was calculated by assuming two deaths per year would occur on his property. Pretty fucked up, right? The second thing that came to mind was how this story reminded of something one might hear about a trip to Action Park. If you've never read anything about Action Park, or visited before its closing in 1996...holy shit. Here are some of the wonderful attractions you could partake in if you ventured into Vernon Township between '78 and '96. My family took me to a lot of local amusement parks when I was growing up in New Jersey, but I don't remember a damn thing about any of them. That's not true, I have a very distinct memory of crying at Sesame Place, and riding a roller coaster shaped like a worm. These trips were when I was way too young to know what was going on around me. We have tons of family videos of all these trips, I'll have to ask someone to dig through them for evidence of Action Park adventures.

Alpine Slides - Also known as "Death Express." Tracks were constructed with concrete and fiberglass, which led to numerous serious abrasions on riders who took even mild spills. The sleds operated at two speeds, "extremely slow" and "death awaits", thanks to often inoperable brakes. The first fatality occurred on the alpine slide, when an employee suffered a head injury. Between 1984 and 1985, the ride produced 14 fractures and 26 head injuries. According to one person, "At the top of the lift, the pothead teenagers working at Action Park would show you graphic pictures of Alpine Slide victims missing entire sections of their stomachs."

Tidal Wave Pool - Two deaths occurred here, and countless persons were saved from drowning. It was nicknamed "The Grave Pool." It required 12 lifeguards at all time, and on high-traffic weekends they were known to rescue as many as 30 people.

Tarzan Swing - A steel arch hanging from a cable over a spring-fed pool allowed patrons to hang from it and swing out over the water, then jump off. People would hold on too long and destroy toes on the far-side concrete. The water was excruciatingly cold, in 1984 a man died from a heart attack after experiencing the swing.

Looping Water Slide - It was rarely in operation. It featured a complete vertical loop. The pool at the end was "a rubber-lined hole dug into the ground." It was open for one month in '85 before it was ordered closed by the state. "There were too many bloody noses and back injuries," claimed one park employee. It as also rumored that test dummies used in simulations were dismembered. After opening for a month in '95 the ride closed following two drownings.

30-Second TV Spot: 1983

Support This Site

Subscribe With ...

Disappear Here

Friends/Friendly Blogs