Haha! Go Team!
So I was looking at pictures from the Festival of San Fermin in Spain. And I just want to make sure that I’m not the only heartless bastard that is unabashedly rooting for the bulls. I’m not joking about this, and as bad as it is to root for people to get messed up by several hundred pounds of muscle, horns and ass-kickitude, I’m firmly on the bulls’ side here. Let’s be honest. This “tradition” (more about which later) is fucking ridiculous. I really can’t think of a more brutal and cruel thing to do to animals than the festival of San Fermin. First, they lock all these bulls together in a tiny ass room/cage all crammed in there like nuts in a European speedo. Then they fling open the doors, kick ‘em in the ass and send them running on a mad dash of death through the streets while people poke, punch and throw shit at them. This is really the bull’s only fighting chance. They’ve got a chance to gore some of the drunken buffoons running in front of them, or if they’re lucky they can hop or knock down a barricade and trample the shit out of some asshole spectator. Of course, if the bull lives through the run and doesn’t break or maim itself or get trampled by other bulls, then it makes it to the arena.
Guess what happens in the arena? The bulls, exhausted already, get drugged and sent to “fight” the matadors. Fight? REALLY? If only I could get into fights where my opponent had just run a marathon and been drugged. Oh yeah, also can I be armed with swords and knives, too? Of course, I can’t… but guess who can? The fucking coward-ass matadors.
Nice socks, asshole.
People can talk all they want about the courage, the skill, the finesse and the shiny pink pants but fuck that. Give me a guy who’s got the balls to fight a fully rested, undrugged bull. You won’t find a goddamn guy in all of Spain with the cajones for that. Hell, even in Texas the closest you get is a guy who’s crazy enough to try to ride a bull for eight seconds. EIGHT… SECONDS. Matadors are cowards. I have more respect for the rodeo clowns and their bull-calming Jedi mind tricks.
And I’m far from an animal rights activist. I don’t even get the naked PeTA calender. I’m not even against animals being killed to fill my gluttonous beef/beer hole. But even a heartless prick like me sees the epic cowardice and bullshit in this festival. It’s fine with me if you want to let loose a bunch of bulls and try not to get your intestines skewered; its your funeral. Literally, in the case of one of the assholes who lost to Team Bull. But then to run these bulls into an arena to be slaughtered in front of a crowd of drunks and pink-sock-wearers is just the most demeaning death possible. Its as bad, if not worse than the Colosseum of ancient Rome (where I would’ve rooted for Team Lions over Team Christians*). So what’s the excuse the Spanish use for this festival? Simple: tradition.
Tradition?! You’re fucking kidding me, right? By that logic, America should have “Slavery Week”, where we round up all the black people to beat and lynch them just for shits a giggles. Who doesn’t want to relive the good old days of cotton fields and Jefferson Davis? Just because some assholes in the past made a mistake, doesn’t mean you’re supposed to keep fucking making it (with the exception of procreation, because while I’m predominantly a misanthrope, if the past people didn’t exist neither would I. Its a Catch-22). Spain needs to man up and can this abusive festival. Its been going on since 1591. That’s 418 years of pointlessly killing animals (I’m pretty sure no one eats them afterwards, either).
I am no sympathy for any human being – who is supposed to have superior intellect – that fucks with wild animals. You get gored by a bull? Good, your fault. A lion eats your face when you’re on safari? Good, you’re a dumbass. You get mauled by an escaped tiger at the local zoo? Still your fault for trying to keep a killing machine in a cage, ass-hat. I fucking hate zoos. So you know what? I don’t care. I’m going to keep rooting for the bulls, because a vote for the bulls is a vote for karma and a vote for justice. Not to mention it helps to weed the stupid out of the gene pool. Yay for self-imposed eugenics.
Go bulls,
{VM}
* Kidding.
Pictures from: http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/07/the_festival_of_san_fermin_200.html
WBCN 104.1 FM Goes Off The Air
Having worked as a disc jockey and as a program director for WWPV 88.7FM in Burlington, Vermont I developed an appreciation for the difficulty of creating “good radio.” I’ll be the first person to say that being a DJ is not an easy gig, and not just because I’m a self-aggrandizing jack-ass (I am one, but my point still stands). My radio shows rarely reached the three-to-four hour range and usually averaged around two hours in length. Most professional DJs fill four-to-six hours of programming time. Granted they had the benefits of commercials and commercial radio that us peons don’t have but I digress.
Back in my DJ hey-day...
Why am I talking about radio? It was announced today that WBCN, known as “The Rock of Boston”, will be going off the air on August 13th (two days before my birthday). Let’s not mince words, or pull a Michael Jackson corpse-fucking because ALL corporate radio sucks. And that’s not just the little wannabe punk rocker in me (BCN plays The Clash and The Ramones), it’s just the truth. Music doesn’t need commercials and it sure as hell doesn’t need MTV. Truth be told, I don’t listen to the radio much any more on any frequency because being inundated with asinine yammering that accumulates to little more than celebrity worship and self-aggrandizement (word of the day, I know) and artists like Lady Ga-Ga and the Jonas Brothers is a punishment worse than eternal damnation. And in full disclosure, I boycotted WBCN for the entire time they had Opie and Anthony on the air. I will never listen to or support a station that supports those two failed abortions.
WBCN has a legacy in Boston as a progressive music station, changing from a classical radio station to an underground rock station in 1968. I’m not going to go through the whole history of WBCN, because I’m lazy and Wikipedia exists. My favorite radio show (besides of course The Full Ponty and The Pre-Game Show) is the Toucher and Rich Show. I started listening to Toucher and Rich in the afternoon on my drives home from work and when I started coming down to Connecticut, I’d catch it in the mornings on my drive down. The show, to me, is a perfect mix between humor and irreverance, a line often destroyed through the juvenile stupidity of Howard Stern* and the aforementioned pickle-smoking Opie and Anthony. Creating dynamic, dialog-driven radio programming is surprisingly difficult. On television, you have visual aids and gags that you can use which makes it easier to accomplish. And having actually sat in front of a microphone and tried to fill dead air with something coherent, its even more impressive to me when radio shows develop a fan base and longevity.
WBCN was also the home to Robby Roadsteamer, who is one of the funniest guys in the city; not to mention a true nice guy and awesome character.
But I think what is more upsetting than the fact that a historical culture linch-pin of the city is being pulled, is what is replacing it. According to Boston.com:
Owner CBS Radio Boston said today that the legendary station is going off the air in a complicated shuffle intended to make room for a new sports/talk format.
On August 13, 98.5 The Sports Hub will replace the music station WBMX, or Mix 98.5, which will move to WBCN’s slot on the dial. WBCN will become a Web-only operation available at www.wbcn.com.
The Sports Hub will air New England Patriots and Boston Bruins games, according to a release from the station. Local personalities Toucher and Rich will anchor the morning drive hours. The station will take the call letters WBZ-FM, pending FCC approval.
That’s right, everybody. Fuck music! Who needs that? That’s not what radio is for! Radio is for fat-ass ass-bags with uneducated opinions and Joey Lawerence haircuts to sit in a fucking posh studio and rant about bullshit like Michael Jackson and Sarah Palin’s alien love baby. Fuck talk radio. Do we really need to pollute the cultural atmosphere with more hate-filled idoicy and partisan douchebaggery? Fuck people like Rush Limbaugh that contribute nothing to the public discourse but uninformed, irrelevant opinion and bigotry. Fuck him, and fuck Howie Carr. He’s another two-faced fuck-twit that has never had an original thought or worked a day in his fucking life, but he just takes a piss on whoever the scapegoat de jour is and leechings off society like a social remora.
And you know what else? Fuck sports radio. That’s right, I said it. Fuck sports radio. I don’t give a shit what Gerry Callahan thinks of Eddie House’s field goal percentage and neither should you. If you care that much, watching the fucking game. The only thing the sports section of a newspaper needs is the stats and the scores and MAYBE an injury/trading report. All the speculation and bullshit that fills the hours upon hours of sports talk programming is just useless filler nonsense. I don’t give a shit if some ass-bag sports columnist doesn’t like the new Fenway Franks. I don’t care if some jerk doesn’t like Jack Edwards’ commentary. And REALLY, CBS, REALLY?! You think you’re going to break the stranglehold that WEEI has on sports radio in Boston? You could give out free Sox tickets to everyone that listens and you’d still pull half their audience because 1. WEEI has a monopoly on it and 2. sports radio SUCKS.
And this is what you replace music with? This is metal stick you shove into the cavity where the social spinal column used to be? I’m fucking glad. I’m fucking glad that I’m going to die of a simultaneous aneurysm/heart-attack before America’s culture is completely ravished and raped.
I’m gonna go put on a MC5 album and put a gun in my mouth.
RIP WBCN,
{VM}
* I actually enjoyed Howard Stern’s program, but generally more from a philosophical perspective. I still consider Howard Stern the strongest advocate for free speech in my lifetime. I enjoyed it more when I was 13 and nothing was funnier than a good fart joke.
When did “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey become the epicenter of youth culture? Like a good celebrity funeral, nothing brings the people together like schlitz and Steve Perry. I went out to The Burren in Somerville last night, and I ended up going alone because all of you are flakey assholes. Actually most of you were busy with something called “your own lives”. I’m not sure what this is, but I aren’t you supposed to drop it whenever Vinny calls up and goes: “Dude. Booze?*” I was supposed to meet up with Pete who I haven’t seen in forever, but his buddy couldn’t afford the cover charge. Which is ridiculous because 1. it was $5 and 2. if I had been of clear mind and body, I’d have just paid it for the kid, because see #1. So DJ Stalemate didn’t end up coming, nor did Justine who lives in Somerville but was apparently busy whoring for bus fare (or with her family on the Cape, I don’t remember), nor did Rachael who sacrificing small animals to Satan (or having a bridal shower in Jersey, again I don’t remember), and nor did Will but he had implied that he wouldn’t be coming (because he was busy sacrificing whores for bus fair… or something).
You know who did show up? Rossi (pronounced: “ROSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSAY!!!”). I hadn’t seen Rossi in a dog’s age**, so I was pumped when he texted me and asked if I was in Davis Square and then came down to The Burren. A band called The Spittin’ Vinnies was playing, which I dug because fuck it, I’m one of those people who marks out for shit with the same name as them (Vinny Testaverde = Best QB Ever. Vinny Testa’s = surprisingly not very good). They were actually a pretty solid pseudo-ska cover band. I say pseudo-ska because they weren’t really ska at all, but one of them had a trumpet so that counts in my book. At the end of the night they played Journey’s magnus opus “Don’t Stop Believin’”.
You might think the first words of the song are “Just a small town girl… livin’ in a lonely world…” but they aren’t. The first words you hear whenever that song starts playing is everyone in the room going “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!!” As in, “Oh fuck, I know this song!” Really? No shit. You and the rest of the known universe. Steve Perry (Journey’s lead singer) is the most popular that no one’s ever heard of. My favorite saying about this song belongs, unsurprisingly to Caity who said to me “Dude, drunk girls love Journey.” It’s one of those laws of nature like gravity or getting kicked out of the bar for stealing fruit from the garnish tray; its simple and in its simplicity is its brilliance.
The song itself, however, is not simple. In fact its a weird hodge-podge of borderline non-sensical lyrics that vaguely approximate a narrative interspersed with a kick-ass guitar solo. The only song that ever brings out more air-guitars than “Don’t Stop Believin’” is Guns N Roses’ “Sweet Child of Mine”, which – not coincidentally – has a similar nonsense-meets-guitar structure. But what I’ve been scratching my (hungover) head about all morning is how the fuck this song became so popular. Its popularity in general makes sense: its a catchy tune, ’nuff said. Case closed. However, its popularity among the 15-35 year old range is staggering. Never has the song come on and I’ve heard someone say “I fucking hate this song” or even “Man, am I sick of this song”. In fact, I was at Magaritas in Waltham with Bonnie and her well-endowed roommate and not only did “Don’t Stop Believin’” come on, but someone said “Fuck it, I want to hear that motherfucking jam again!” And we listened to the song back-to-back. Oh yeah, and it came on again at the end of the night. Did anyone complain? Nope. In fact, I was the only that even noticed, at least as far as I could tell because the college chicks with the pink drinks and sombreros in the corner went “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!!” all three times.
It’s impressive that a song that came out 5 years before I was born has such staying power with people who were too young to remember its time on the charts. Though, all power ballads have this effect to some extent. Where it’s really gotten its staying power from, however, is television and movies. A quick look over at the Wikipedia entry for the song says its been on:
he song has appeared in a number of film and television series, including The Wedding Singer, Family Guy, Monster, Shrek the Halls, Bedtime Stories, Yes Dear, King of the Hill, The Comebacks, View from the Top, South Park, Cold Case, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, My Name Is Earl, Just Shoot Me, Laguna Beach, American Idol, Scrubs, The Sopranos, and Glee.
That list is so well-maintained, I’m pretty sure Steve Perry edits it himself every week. Though I think the credit has to go to Family Guy for this: http://www.freevlog.hu/play?v=u4977ad785588d. That’s just one man’s humble opinion, but its right one, goddammit. Anyways, this post is getting long. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to tell you that I met a girl named Maria. And karma, as they say, is a bitch.
But I hate baseball cards,
{VM}
* There was a kid at college who shall remain nameless who was buddies with my roommate Jon. Jon was making fun of the kid one day doing an impression of him, and I told him that his impression was off slightly because this kid never EVER used verbs. The best part was that the kid showed up later that night to the party and ended up hooking up with one of Jon’s friends. He comes back the next morning and his summation of the events went (and I’m not making this up): “Dude. Your party. CRAZY. Dude. That girl. What up?” Though to be perfectly fair, that really is all that could be said.
** I have no idea what the fuck that even means.
Before I get into shit, fucking delicious and There, I Fixed It are the best fucking websites on the fucking planet. If you don’t laugh at animals mao-ing down on shit and idiots jury-rigging shit, then not only do you have no fucking soul but you’re also a fucking terrorist. And I don’t negotiate with fucking terrorists (regular terrorists, maybe).
So I was talking with my friend – who we’ll call “Emily” because her name is fucking Emily – and the topic of nice guys came up. I pride myself on being a nice guy. Sure, cross me and your jugular vein will become a waterfall of death but if you’re on my good side (which my left side, FYI) then you’re gravy. Em-C asked me if I was a nice dude, to which I responded “C’mon. You’ve met me. I’m so sweet that when I make out girls get cavities” which I came up with on the spot and I’m super proud of it. And if anyone fucking tells me that someone else said it first, I refer you to the sentence about the “waterfall of death.” Granted, I’m not peaches and fucking cream 24/7 (sorry, I’m swearing a lot. fucking delicious ingrained into my skull-beef the notion that gratuitous profanity is hysterical) but no one is.
Despite being tougher than a $2 steak (which, I didn’t come up with. JR did), I have my Lloyd Dobler moments. I know you have to wine (Franzia) and dine (Olive Garden) in order to con/trick/bamboozle a broad into liking you, that’s just science (the ‘laws of nature’ part. Elementary shit, my dear Watson). And actually I really enjoy that part. Maybe that’s because I usually end up attracted to semi- (to completely) damaged women, and their world lights up like the Fourth of July when you bring them flowers, but I’ve been told that most chicks dig that. Obviously, I would have no idea. All my attempts to date normal, ten-finger/ten-toe dames have been shot down like a duck in western Mass*.
Anyways, I’m going to take off my feminist hat (which is a great hat concept I just came up with, ask me about it later) – and probably piss off The Pool’s resident femi-nazi – and extrapolate my theory to all of womankind, instead of just the fraction I’ve interacted with: Women don’t like nice guys. Untwist your underoos and hear me out on this one. In a rare moment of syngery and awesome, I’m linking back to what I started talking about. Emily said on the topic of nice dudes:
I dumped boys thru high school and college for being too nice, then ended up dating the biggest ass.
Which is true, at least the second part. I believe I mentioned Douchebag Jeff somewhere before. Let’s be honest, there’s very few redeemable Jeffs in the world (Also, if you’re a dude named Jeff reading this, and you don’t start a band called “Redeemable Jeffs” you’re a fucking douche-nozzle). Anyways before I start R-A-M-B-L-I-N-Apostrophe-ing too much, the point is that I have found that the above statement is indicative of the majority of skirts**. I’m not saying that its impossible to be too nice, because its not and there is such a thing as “too nice.” But “too nice” is hard to accomplish and is generally regulated to the kind of over-achieving multi-taskers who think its kosher to give you a blowjob and polish your shoes simultaneously (surprisingly not a fetish of mine). The “too nice” that women complain about is linked to something ingrained into their skull-beef that creates a feeling of guilt when a guy does something nice for them, and makes them feel they have to reciprocate the nice-ness.
As usual, I blame feminism. Speaking as your average low-life, I know that when I bring a harlot*** flowers I don’t expect her to do anything (even me) in return. I did it out of the remaining goodness in my pathetic little black heart and fully anticipate that to be end of the saga. But something makes these “too nice”-hatin’ chicks think that its either a ploy/shenanigans, or that they’re now at a karma-deficit that needs to be re-paid. Its probably do to the erosion of chivalry (which, again, I blame on feminism) and the lowered expectations (and, thereby, actions) for men in the process of courtship. Apparently, society can’t have its cake and eat it too where we refrain from beating chicks with sticks but still do the little shit.
But the “too nice” card might be the only one in the deck that hasn’t been pulled on me. I’ve got a collection of ” too good of friends” cards; “it’ll ruin the friendship cards” cards; “it’s not you, it’s me” cards; “it’s just not the right time” cards; and “I have a boyfriend, stop dry-humping my leg” cards, but no “too nice” cards… yet (also, I seem to have misplaced my “V” card somewhere). As I explained to Emily, if you’re going to play those cards you really can’t complain about dating assholes. The guys that you’re friends with will probably make better boyfriends than any popped-collar motherfucker with a $50 tan and $50,000 car you’ll find “in da club.”
Oh, and to answer the obvious question of why Emily and I aren’t dating: she played the “I’m like your sister” card. That, and I’m afraid of her dad.
Peace,
{VM}
* This joke, unfortunately, requires footnotes. My dad tells a story of a “buddy of his” (read: him) that went out hunting in western Massachusetts. There’s not much hunt-able wildlife in most of Mass and most of it ends up as fender gravy anyways. Anyways, the guy goes out hunting and there’s a million Puerto Ricans with shotguns just sitting in the reeds not wearing hunting camo but trying to act covert as shit. Suddenly, a duck flies off in the middle… BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM… within a milli-second the duck is incinerated by a hail-storm of shotgun shells.There was literally no carcass left to claim. Apparently Puerto Ricans are like Italians, in that when they shoot something they want all evidence that it ever existed to disappear.
** Apologies for the 50’s lingo. There are only so many synonyms for “women”, and I’m saving “harlots” and “jezebels” for a special occasion.
*** Fuck it, this is a special occasion.
Captain America. Hates Nazis. Hates Commies. Loves America
I love Fourth of July weekend, because it is the one weekend out of the year that liberals, commies, feminists and other undesirables can’t say shit when I wear my “United We Stand” American flag T-shirt (I couldn’t find my “These Colors Don’t Run” shirt). As I said to someone last night, I love being American. Yeah sure we’re fucking loud and obnoxious at times, but the whole do/say/destroy whatever we want attitude meshes perfectly with my personality. Maybe we’re (I’m) not perfect, but really what other options do you have?
That sentiment was much more coherent when I was about 64 Miller Lites (brewed in Milwaukee, which is actually in America despite its proximity to Canada) deep, but moving on…
The point is I love being American. Its something I’ve never been ashamed of, despite how I’m supposed to feel with all the white-guilt/male-guilt/American-guilt. Whatever, my grandmother’s Irish Catholic; I learned to ignore feelings of guilt a long time ago. So Fourth of July is one of favorite holidays, which is why I’ve been celebrating with a five day bender interspersed with most American activities I can manage to accomplish. These are included but not limited to:
- Watching 10 Things I Hate About You on television (because watching good movies edited for TV is the picture of laziness, especially when you own the same movie in its unedited version). Also, love the movie and Letters to Cleo.
- Watching the Red Sox and marking out for new commentator Sean “The Mayor” Casey. Baseball is America’s past-time and Casey is America’s past-time’s mayor. Plus he’s a 9.7 on the unintentional comedy scale.
- Watching Bill Pullman’s speech from Independence Day several, several times. It’s sort of a tradition of watching ID4 with my dad on July 4th. Other movies dad and I watch include The Patriot*.
- Nearly blowing off my face and deafening myself with fireworks of questionable legality on the beaches of Hull.
- Carting enough beer/melted ice that I think at one point I dislocated my shoulder.
- Shooting a Roman candle out of my mouth.
- Eating an enormous burger and an enormous hot dog while drinking Miller Lites.
- Sleeping past noon several days in a row.
- Hitting up bon-fires
- Singing along to acoustic guitars
While I would like to continue with some more awesomeness, my hangovers have significantly depleted my ability to function whatever do-hickey in my brains makes coherency come out. Enjoy being imperialist pigs, everyone!
Peace,
{VM}
* I realize that makes two Heath Ledger references, and I am aware that he is Australian.
I realized today while washing my hands that I could never be high maintenance, and it mostly stems from the fact that I’m too lazy. Don’t get me wrong, I somewhat enjoy keeping a respectable level of hygeine (the respectable level that involves bathing with some frequency), but anything beyond that is a pain in my ass. I enjoy getting haircuts, but actual hair maintenance is a pain in the ass (read that sentence again… its a good barometer for how dirty your mind is, or how often you wax your ass). My brain has this on-board “Don’t-Give-A-Fuck” clock that says if after two and a half seconds of water, gel and hand-combing we still don’t have acceptable results: fuck it, wear a hat. This is why I own a fedora. Outside of being bad-ass, a fedora is an acceptable piece of head-wear for formal events… like a funeral. Plus, “check out the cock-bag in the fancy hat” has worked for some of my friends as a pick-up line.
But I could never be high maintenance, and its a good thing that I roll out of bed just naturally looking gorgeous*. The hair is the main downfall, which explains the years of not shaving and not getting haircuts. Yet I never looked like the kind of guy who would get food stuck in his beard. Which is good, because I did look like the kind of guy who would eat people. And if I can’t be bothered to shave my face (I did shave the neck, because no one looks good with a neckbeard), why would I even consider shaving my chest?
"I proll'y scar her heart... for life."
The whole chest-shaving/waxing thing just falls way out of my realm of understanding and my realm of give-a-fuck. I have a rather luxurious man-sweater, a fact which directly contributed to my friendship with Micah. We bonded over being the only two men in Orlando with chest hair. It was refreshing to know that someone else’s view of the world was as masculine and archaic as mine. Being one of the youngest kids in school I was never quick to the whole puberty thing (my balls didn’t drop until I turned 20), but I do remember being the first bad Jackson sporting chest stubble. Despite the fact that everything I ever learned came directly from the WWF, I was acutely aware that Razor Ramon was not the only hombre sporting chest hair in the world (and George “The Animal” Steele wasn’t the only one with back-hair), and that having such hair-not-of-the-head-variety was a sign of unmistakable dude-liness.
Beyond the obvious fact that professional wrestling seriously stunted my mental development (almost as much as trying to imitate it and suffering some pretty serious head trauma), it seems that my world view is out-dated in this modern era of Abercrombie catalogs and Brad Pitt. I can’t compete with bi-sexuality, I just can’t. Look, I’m as big of a Vinny fan as the next guy (or gal), but even I can’t fathom taking the time and effort to do shit like go tanning, pluck my eyebrows, wax my bikini zone, and so on. It doesn’t take a metrosexual for that sort of shit, it takes someone who seriously loves themselves. I’m not talking narcissism, but full on sexual attraction to one’s self. These guys that do all this crazy shit really just want to bang themselves. Of course, they can’t – physics and anatomy and all – so they look for the next closest effeminate person. Unfortunately, that’s usually some chick.
There’s nothing wrong with staying well-trimmed and well-primmed. Chicks have to do it (well, they technically don’t have to, but society doesn’t look to kindly on the hairy-pitted ladies anymore), and it really wouldn’t be fair if I got to get away with smelling/looking like Oscar the Grouch.
"Doin' anything this weekend, baby?"
I don’t really know where this rant about the man-pelt is going. I had intended to write about how I originally thought The Dead Pool would be a blog full of social commentaries, but I always end up getting side-tracked… Oh fuck. I think I just defined ‘irony.’
Peace,
{VM}
PS. I’m not THAT hairy. Just an FYI.
* I will give a shiny new nickel to the first person who counts up the number of times I’ve called myself “gorgeous” against the number of times I’ve referred to myself as a “bridge troll.” I’m interest to see if I’m self-depricatingly witty, or just a narcissistic dick.
I am fully aware that Twitter is stupid, pointless and almost useless. That really doesn’t make it any less fun or addictive. It’s probably not that addictive, but I have an addictive personality and far too much crap bouncing around in my head that does not warrant full blog posts. The thing that I actually enjoy about Twitter though, is that it allows for a conversation consisting entirely of one-liners. For example, a friend of mine is one of those secret identity sex-advice columnists for a newspaper in Vermont…
(FYI Mistress Maeve is not the same as classy lady-frend Maeve)
MistressMaeve: Today can SUCK IT.
AntiHeroV: @MistressMaeve Who is this “Today” and is she single?
MistressMaeve: @AntiHeroV Don’t you know that my nickname is “Today“
AntiHeroV: @MistressMaeve That’s the kinkiest Abbott and Costello reference ever.
If you collect weird, random, slightly disturbed but inherent funny/brilliant friends (which I try to do, but usually end up with drunks and whores), Twitter does a fairly decent job creating moderately intelligent entertainment, even if its just a conversation with yourself…
AntiHeroV: I insist on having proper grammatical syntax in my tweets. This occasionally causes problems around character 140 but we all make sacrifices
AntiHeroV: @AntiHeroV For example, that last tweet is missing a comma and a period.
Anyways, this post isn’t about Twitter, I’ve done that already. This is about my friend Emily who recently re-emerged from outer space (a habit some of my associates, well-wishers and meth-suppliers tend to have). Apparently she’s been busy assassinating third world leaders and sacrificing virgins* or dating some douchebag named Jeff, I forget which now. Either way, she’s back now which is pretty bad-ass in the same way that finding $20 in the pocket of jeans you haven’t seen or talked to in years is bad-ass. Emily is one of only four living people in possession of my super-secret nickname that brings infertility and death upon people who use it without permission (a perk of dating a voodoo gypsy is the ability to selectively curse nicknames. Also applies to level 3 dungeon masters**). She didn’t believe me when I said that the last post was going to include mention of her but got too long, so now I’m randomly sliding her name in amidst random-ass Twitter crap.
On a semi-related note, people have been talking to me about marriage a lot recently. Emily seems to think we’d be compatible, which I don’t disagree with and apparently neither does some random broad I work with. I went out to dinner last night with Big Al and High Maintenance and somehow the topic got onto marriage and me (which sounds vaguely like a class they should teach at the Y on weekends). HM got married when she was my age, divorced, then married again about 7-10 years later, and then divorced again… so clearly she’s an expert on the subject (or at least a leading field researcher). I’m sure Emily will be happy to know that HM agrees with her about how I shouldn’t pursue older women (HM: “They all want to get married and have babies!”), and is also convinced that Em and I will end up together anyways. To which I (stupidly) said, “That’s what people have been saying about Deirdre for years.”
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I know nothing about women. If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s opening up cans of worms (and whoop-ass). Luckily, I often get the chance to apply my knowledge and skill-set and end up in a 20 minute conversation about “love advice” with people I work with. On the plus side, no one seems to think I’m going to die cold and alone.
Except me, of course. But like I said: If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I know nothing about women.
Peace,
{VM}
* I fucking cannot wait for this movie. And yes, I often try to find the weirdest phrase in my posts to link.
** Just kidding. Dungeon masters don’t have levels.
————————-
As a bonus, this “conversation happened while writing this post…
AntiHeroV: http://singularityu.org/ Why, oh why wasn’t this around when I looking at colleges?
FairEnough: @AntiHeroV because you majored in drinking with a minor in cs. singularity u is all about ray kurzweil and douchebaggery
FairEnough: @AntiHeroV also, moore’s law no longer applies, as it is being artificially maintained. the singularity won’t happen
AntiHeroV: @FairEnough BLASPHEMY! No robot wife for you.
Also, follow Jereme is you like off-beat geeky humor. He does it mostly unintentionally, but hey, I’ve never done anything good on purpose either.
digitalsins: Transformers backwards is a movie about robots who learn to stop their petty fighting, help rebuild cities, and leave the planet in peace.
There are times I wish I could come up with clever titles; like emo or prog. rock bands or (along a more masculine/vulgar route) like Will. But I’m too busy trying to think of clever content (i.e. making my boring life seem interesting) to keep you unwashed masses coming back to the trough. That’s probably why I’ve managed to bang out 100 posts on this here Dead Pool. I spent a good chunk of what was supposed to be my work day today reading through old posts of The Dead Pool (because I’m a narcissist) and Same As We Ever Was (because I like fellow narcissists). After admiring the fact that the two most prolific bloggers of all time (that don’t own their own sites) eat, sleep and destroy their respective livers within the same 10 mile radius, I came to a conclusion.
The Dead Pool is basically my mundane life espoused in a manner that makes it seems vaguely exciting, weird and humorous. Whereas SAWEW is Will’s significantly more engrossing life espoused in a manner that seeks to make it seem blase and commonplace. Just one man’s observation and it’s probably wrong. But I’m not really hear to talk about that. Well actually, I kind of am.
This past weekend, I went to People’s Republik three times; Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. All three times I was accompanied by the Emperor, and all three times managed to meet some new people. Normally this isn’t noteworthy news, but given the frequency with which I meet new people, I’m declaring it noteworthy and you’re gonna read about it and like it.
Thursday night I came back from Patheticut and promised the Emperor I’d go out with him since I haven’t seen him for about a week. Normally when I don’t see people for about a week, I could give two shits. But J knows too many of my deep dark secrets for me to allow them to fester in his noggin. So I did what any good friend does and sought to destroy the brain cells that remember the aforementioned secrets.
Thursday we went to People’s. I had the usual Dogfish IPA and he had the usual whatever-I-was-paying-for (actually I’m fuzzy on this, he may have bought drinks Thursday). The Emperor has been without an empress since the last one tried to make off with all his slaves and half the empire, so the majority of our conversation revolved around what the majority of the Pool revolves around: dames. People’s has an eclectic mix of the fairer sex, and J had his eyes on two of them in particular. Then he started doing that thing I hate when people do it around me: thinking. Let’s be honest here, though: J didn’t get to be the Emperor for nothing. He’s an insightful cat and when he pontificates it’s probably a solid idea to catch some of the brain droppings, but this particular pontificating basically came down to trying to man up enough to go over to these two girls. Given that we had not procured the necessary funding for the liquid courage, this went on for quite a while, until he finally decided to move seats so that we’d be closer to these two. I want to put it out there that while I was not disinterested, nothing about these two really struck my fancy – neither was 1. holding a severed head or 2. Megan Fox – so they were your run-of-the-mill Thirsty Thursday patrons. Its gotten to the point where he’s talked about them enough and I’ve been involved in the conversation enough that not approaching them would fall beyond the realm of pathetic and sad and into the realm of going to the bathroom at the high school dance to cry and cut yourself… not that I’ve done that*.
So my lungs took one for the team. When the two girls, who turned out to be German somehow or another, went out for a smoke I told Julian to give me a cigarette. So I went out, bummed a light and started up a pretty weak-ass conversation, but it was enough to get the introductions rolling and for what little interest I did have to completely disapate. But the night was deemed a success because we drank strange beer and talked to strange folk. And really what more can you hope to accomplish on Thursday night?
I’m skipping over Friday temporarily because this is my story and I know how to narrate, so get off me.
Saturday rolls around, and after two nights of meeting new people (don’t worry, I’ll get to Friday) the Emperor was ready to expand his kingdom and acquire a new concubine (there is really very little chance that I will ever get tired of referring to Julian as “The Emperor”. Blame Stapes). So we took up real estate at the corner of the bar near the hot dog steamer and away from all the beer and while J scoped out the surroundings I discovered that Bud on tap is only $2.75. Why in the blue Buddhist hell have I have been dropping $5 (plus tip) for Dogfish all this time? Next time I’m at People’s, you fuckers better find me, because I will handing out free drinks like candy with my new-found savings of $2.25/beer. Anyways, who should roll up next to us but dark-haired German girl from Thursday night and some new blonde chick named Heather. DHGG disappeared to the can for an extended period of time so I decided to strike up a conversation with the new girl. Meanwhile, J hadn’t wanted to spend money on booze so he had brought a olive jar full of vodka and Coke which he left in my car and would return to periodically (until I offered to start buying him drinks). The girl turned out to be a solid broad, because she was into The Velvet Underground and MC5. Finding a chick that knows that the MC5 exists is like finding a needle in a haystack, if that needle knew who the fuck the MC5 are/were.
Of course, diverting the conversation into music brought out the extrovert in the Emperor. He’s in a band, you see. He’s also a recovering hipster, and the second he found out she liked Bright Eyes his little hipster heart was all aflutter (hehe, Julian’s gonna kick me in the shins for that). Frankly, I’m unimpressed with Conor Oberst and REALLY unimpressed with girls that REALLY like Conor Oberst. I was going to insert a dirty joke about sucking his little emo tears out of something that wasn’t his tear-ducts, but I’ll refrain because I’ve already mentioned the dude enough. So J got her number and all was well in the empire. I was pretty happy to see him bust out of his shell and pursue a girl that wasn’t some demon harpie from the depths of Hades (okay, I think I may be getting too liberal with this whole emperor/mythology thing now).
Luckily, the rest of this story is all about me. Well, actually it has almost nothing to do with me and everything to do with how awesome Friday was. Normally I don’t like going to the same bar twice (let alone thrice) in one weekend, but it was Friday; which meant my little brother was coming out and Will was probably working. I hadn’t seen Will since I left my Roadsteamer CD there and oogled his new softball glove, so I figured that if I was going to severely shorten my life through alcohol I might as well do it in the company of brothers and bloggers. After procuring a table (no easy feat at the Republik), I gave Will my copy of Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs and he gave me a beer, which as far as a literature-to-liquid trade goes is the equivalent of trading Jason Bay for Manny Ramirez (an upgrade for all parties involved… except the Pirates). Anyways, the bro and his cronies decided they wanted to wander the finer sections of Cambridge (and ended up running into my classiest lady-friend, Maeve). Meanwhile, J had left his cell phone in my car and decided to go retrieve it. So there I was all by my lonesome at the table, sipping a free beer and enjoying life on a somewhat staid level when Will showed up.
The fucker had been busting his hump, and I can appreciate a good hump-busting having put in a day or two (certainly no more) of honest labor in my life, so I was glad to see him taking a breather. Apparently his friend Kelly had come to People’s – apparently alone, so its nice to know that a higher class of person than myself frequents there on solo missions – and so he introduced the two of us and she joined me for a drink. So not only have I been supplied with an upstanding quality beverage, but also been supplied with an upstanding quality human to enjoy it alongside. Yeah, I know I’m kissing ass a lot right now, but that’s because I totally dig this chick. I mean being stunningly beautiful will only get you so far with me (it will get you pretty fucking far, let’s be honest, but that’s still only so far), and Kelly is certainly that. But that didn’t really hit home, though, until we started talking about quantum physics and other geeky/nerdy shit that most gorgeous women consider the realm of bridge trolls and dungeon masters. Bonnie should be proud of me because I met a girl that not only was smart, but probably smarter than me. Long story shorter, because this is getting to be a long-ass post… I asked her for her number and she gave it to me without any hypnosis, slight of hand or any of my usual other tricks and devices that seem necessary in said situation.
So I guess the moral of the story is: good things happen to you when you frequent the same bar with your best friend. At least I think that’s the moral. It could also be that if you’re ever at People’s Republik in Cambridge, be nice to The Man They Call Will because if you do he may return the favor, and if you don’t, he’ll probably kick your ass.
Peace,
{VM}
* At least since I’ve been out of high school.
EDIT: I proofread this last night, but obviously failed horribly.Proofread again there should be less glaring mistakes now.
Taking a break from what has become a rather shameless string of posts that really served no purpose other than allowing me to insert pictures of beautiful women into The Dead Pool…
The world suffered a number of tough losses this past week. Most importantly, on my list, was of course the Sox dropping today’s game to the Braves 2-1, despite Vartiek’s best efforts to keep them in the game.
"Hehehe. Guess who's sleeping with Heidi..."
You may think that’s a joke but I’m serious. Let’s run down the list in order of importance:
1. Red Sox lose to Atlanta Braves in close game.
2. USA soccer team shits the bed after getting an amazing 2-0 lead against Brazil, AND after knocking off the best team in the world (Spain) the day before, only to lose 3-2 (Despite Tim Howard’s amazing goaltending).
5. Farrah Fawcett died this week.
6. Michael Jackson died this week.
I repeat, that is IN ORDER OF IMPORTANCE. I’m putting my foot down (again) on this, like I did when some pill-bloated, former Playboy model, with an ancient dead husband kicked the bucket and two A-Rod-level douche-nozzles fought over who was the father of some poor kid that will probably spend his life either in a padded cell, trying to concussion themselves to death or in a gas station bathroom turning tricks for Slim Jim money.
People die every day; that’s part of life. Specifically, its the death part of life (oops, forgot the spoiler alert on that one). I can guarantee you that no one who reads this blog knows Billy Mays, Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson or Anna Nicole Smith on any level that would even vaguely approximate a legitimate relationship. Therefore, no one should give more than a passing “oh that’s too bad” thought to their deaths.
Billy Mays and Ed McMahon were pioneers in their fields, but neither served as more than passing entertainment. They didn’t save lives (though Billy Mays claimed to save you time) or really do anything special. They were just two dudes who did their jobs very well. And that’s a great legacy to leave behind. Those sentences, just summarized what will be close to 6,000 hours of television and news coverage.
Farrah Fawcett seemed like a lovely person, but she was a C-level actress and a sex symbol from the 70’s. She died younger than most (62) and died from something horrible (cancer). But there are lots of other people who have died much younger from the same disease (e.g. my uncle at 50). No one who didn’t know Farrah personally should care any more about her death than about my uncle’s. They both were just two people who died young.
Then there’s Michael Jackson. Okay: Thriller kicks ass. Smooth Criminal is pretty awesome. The moonwalk is unquestionably the greatest dance move of all time. That said, Michael Jackson is the Chris Benoit of popular music. Both were masters of their craft and to the people that appreciated it, they were icons. However they will be remembered for the terrible things they did in life – or at least should be – instead of their contributions to their craft. Benoit, by all accounts, was a nice guy but the concussive damage to his brain caused him to go insane and kill his family and himself. That’s what he’ll be remembered for. Michael Jackson was a talented performer, but their is no question that he did have the maturity or capacity to properly raise and care for children. His antics – like dangling his own child from a balcony, making his kids where masks in public, or routinely sharing his bed with young children – are utterly deplorable and that should be his legacy. No matter how entertaining you are, that pales in comparison to what kind of person you are.
And up until this week, it seemed the world understood that. Michael Jackson was hated and vilified for what he supposedly (and in all likelihood, probably) did to little children at his home. And it should’ve stayed that way. Pedophiles and child molesters die everyday (usually not painfully enough or in a more worthy frequency) and no one wants to throw them a fucking parade. Michael Jackson is, at best, an extremely disturbed individual (which probably stems from his abuse as a child from his father, and is not his fault) that is unfit to be a parent and should not be idolized; and at worst, a sick, disturbing pedophile and child molester who used money and other shit to lure innocent children to himself. My personal feelings towards him lie somewhere in between, but regardless no dances moves, music videos or iconic songs can EVER make up for being a bad person. I find the treatment that Michael Jackson has gotten to be completely hypocritical and sycophantic to the point that it makes me sick.
If you believe Michael Jackson is innocent and never did anything wrong (more than the average human being), that’s fine. He was, after all, acquitted of all counts (which in the modern American justice system means absolutely nothing to me). But even still, he’s just another dead guy. The celebrity-worshipping, corpse-fucking culture that is pervasive in America today needs to stop and it needs to stop now. People like Perez Hilton need to be put out of business and treated like the scum and villany that they are. They are destorying America and the world, and everyone else is just along for the ride.
{VM}
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