Taking a Break

Due to circumstances waaaay beyond my control, I'm putting my blog on hiatus for an unspecified amount of time.

If you look around, you'll probably notice certain posts have been deleted, never to see the light of day again. Some with especially good reason.

Don't worry, I'll be back with new content in the distant future. That said, check back every once in a while and pay a visit to some of my older posts. It'll be fun, trust me.

Anyway, the ride was fun while it lasted.

J.

Pic Post: Doherty Watch, Day 2!

I mean, it could be just me, but the suit and the kid does give him some level of... cleanliness. I'm currently taking bets on when next he punches out a papparazzo or jams a needle into his arm to squirt his blood at someone. Odds? Takers?

Lazy Sunday Pic Post: Doherty Watch!

This guy is a wreck. He looks how I feel most mornings I spend hung over...











In all seriousness, I understand that British guys are supposed to be pasty as fuck, but seriously, this guy is a shade paler than most corpses.

Special 'Lazy Sunday Pic Post' Five Days Early!

As the new iPhone 3G hit stores last Friday, this group of soon-to-be consumers in Tokyo wait in line while wearing animal masks. Instead of horses and polar bears, maybe they should've gone with sheep...?

The jokes write themselves, people.

Lazy Sunday Pic Post

Since moving in together, The Lady and I's pillow to person ratio has grown exponentially. I have no idea why this is, but I think it has something to do with science.

See here:

This was my bed right when I moved in.

This is my bed, as of this morning. What the hell happened?

'Gonzo' Doc Trailer

Go see this. See it twice actually. And when it comes out on dvd, buy five copies of it.

Lazy Sunday: Pic Post

Fuck it, I'm phoning it in for this article, because that's been my general state of mind this entire weekend (more on that later). So here's some pics I found around the web that I ... find... interesting, along with my comments.

Fuck my editors.

Ok, here's the first pic - Chinese commandos are preparing for the Beijing Olympics next week. Obviously China's preparing to counter terrorists with tiny machine guns and circus-like shenanigans.

Up next, why the Iraqis are failing miserably at taking over their own country's security. Hey Ahmed, you're supposed to stand BEHIND the weapon.

Next is a pic taken shortly after a tornado ravaged a Kansas country side. Don't worry, that couch in the lower right hand corner is four-wheel drive.

Lastly, what Wilford Brimley's been up to between tapings of Life Insurance commercials. Note the two kids in the background looking on in complete mortification. Baby's got back.

Best Of: June 2007

This was one of Jim's first "Fear and Loathing" pieces, which is generously ripped off from Hunter Thompson, as far as style was concerned. He's argued that he's paying an homage to the late cultural icon, where as the rest of us on the editorial staff call it blatant plagiarism. Anyway, with Jim out of the office for the next week or so,(work related stuff at his OTHER job...) we thought it would be appropriate to run this old post this weekend because it is La Kermesse back in Maine through Sunday. Enjoy- Ed.

All names have been changed to protect the guilty.*

If you live in Southern Maine, passed through on your way some place else, or are vaguely aware that what some consider to be a suburb of Boston, is in fact a totally different state, you might've heard of the little shin-dig the locals up this way call "La Kermesse."

I don't know what the name means, but I can tell you it's a big French festival complete with rides for the kids, poutine for the people who know what the fuck that is, and a beer tent. The festival itself is preceded by a "block party" on Thursday night, followed by a parade that will open up the fair grounds come Friday afternoon.

Basically, it's an excuse for people to be drunk in public. Not that anyone who lives in the greater Biddeford area really needs an excuse to do so.

So over the last few years (aside from the fact I was living in New York) I've pretty much stayed away from the neon colored orgiastic culmination that is La Kermesse. I really have no desire to see people I went to high school with, whether they're doing better off than me or not, nor do I want to run into the citizens of Biddeford on the whole.

But last night, Thursday June 21st, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of the fray, on the York Street Bridge with some friends, most of whom I didn't even know two hours prior, standing and looking at fireworks through blurry bloodshot eyes, and surrounded by Parliment smoking, stroller pushing, tank-tops-with-skinny-arms having trash. How did I get here? Allow me to illustrate.

I get home from the office at about five, and my pocket buzzes just as I'm pulling off of 95 at the Biddeford exit. It's my friend *John*, a guy I went to high school with and is probably the most genuine guy I know, other than Hokie. He asks if I'd be interested in hanging out, and at first I'm thinking he's putting a card game together, and being broke, I say I'm going to pass.

Instead, however, he asks if I want to go to the fireworks "and shit" tonight. I totally forget that it's the La Kermesse weekend, only passing the giant fucking yellow billboard at the 95 on ramp everyday, twice, for the last two weeks. I say sure, and get a time, and proceed about my evening per usual.

I have dinner with mom which is just pizza out of the box. I manage to burn the roof of my mouth.

I get to John's house a little after 1930 and park in front. He calls from the window to come up stairs and I do so, only to find his drunk younger brother sprawled out across his bed, jabbering on about something. He's dressed head to toe in American Eagle and sports a frat-boy tan. I'm not exactly sure what's going on, because John's busy playing Counter Strike on his computer and his mom is yelling at his brother, who's managing to be at his most incoherent.

Apparently, John's little brother just got home from college for the summer. And he's totally shitfaced.

So that being said, I dig into my back pack and produce a can of PBR and sip on it as I wait to see what's going to happen for tonight. John escorts me out, and his mother calls out that she doesn't want his younger brother getting outside. Dumbly, I stand at the door, with it wide open, as like a cat, the little brother scampers out into the bright wilderness.

We go down into John's basement where he has a pool table, as well as other assortments of entertainment displayed about. It's like your grandparent's rumpus room, if this was the 1970s and people still had rumpus rooms. Or even put those two words together. You know what I mean.

Low ceilings, beer cans littered about, a used and tired looking punching bag propped up against a far wall. The door to get in is never locked and requires a leaned in shoulder to pop it open. We stand around, discussing his younger brother's lack of alcoholic tolerance.

"I told him not to come home. I sent him a text. 'You're shitfaced, mom's home, don't come home'" John says as he works some chalk on to a pool cue. I sip my beer and nod along, thinking back to my kidney destroying first year of higher education. At the time being, John's little brother is sitting, splayed out on the back yard, telling everyone who asks if he's ok that he's in fact, twenty-one years old.

"Dude, you gonna be good?"

"I'm twenty-one!"

"....Ok..."

This brings us to John's other two friends who show up at about this time. *Jerry* and *Dan* know John from college and I guess all play musical instruments together. Dan's a tall dark haired guy who still looks collegate and Jerry's built like a keg, and reminds me somewhat of a guy I went to high school with. Both of these guys are cool shits.

A game of billiards breaks out and John hooks his iPod into a stereo and we take turns talking about stupid shit that guys talk about when they play billiards. Who we've fucked, who we want to fuck, how fucked up we are, how fucking gay something is, how fucking gay you are, and how fucking gay we all are. It's a regular round table of fuck patois.

Suddenly, John's mom appears downstairs, visibly upset. She states that the younger brother has "taken off" up the street, with some female friends of his. She wants him back at the house, pronto.

Allegedly, according to John, his brother started drinking around four in the afternoon when he went to a friend's house, and came back stumbling. He's not much of a guy; he's probably 6' even and 150 lbs tops. Also, he's only eighteen, and although belongs in a fraternity, probably can only muster to hold down four Bud Lights at the most. Also, he probably likes to kiss men (John's words, not mine)

Like an crack army assault unit, myself, John, Jerry and Dan climb into John's Mazda and tear off down the street looking for his brother. It doesn't take us long to come up on him from behind, as he's leading a pack of about four high school aged girls down the hill towards the festivities below. He's weaving all over the side walk, hands out to his sides, head lolling from side to side.

John, who is also a former Law Enforcement Professional, expertly puts the car up on a sidewalk blocking his brother's path from furthering. We all step out of the car as if it was planned. We look like something out of a cheesey cop drama on syndicated television. One of the girls in the pack that was behind the little brother even exclaims to no one:

"Wow, you guys are like a SWAT team!"

You're fucking A right we are, missy.

John makes contact, and Jerry and Dan are quick to block the brother in like a wall of flesh. There's a little bit of a confrontation with a young girl who's obviously on something, but I take her aside and keep a perimeter. The girl says to me "I'm not scared of you guys, my dad's a cop."

"So are we."

"Oh."

With some explanation on my part and some coaxing on John's part, we snatch up his brother and pull off down a side street and get him back home. Where he will pass out sitting on a toilet ten minutes later.

Fast forward to later in the evening. The other gentlemen and I have been playing billiards, shooting the shit (shit patois), and throwing ping-pong balls at water filled cups on a ping-pong table. At some point in the evening, purely due to my inebriated state, I produce my scrotum and announce that I've seemed to have gotten gum on my shorts.

This psyches out Jerry, and leads Dan and I to take the title of Supreme Champions of Beruit, 2007.

John then receives a call from a girl he has some history with, and I encourage him to have her come over. My thoughts are that if she gets here, gets drunk enough, we could probably run a train on her.

Seriously.

*Celeste* shows up about forty-five minutes later, and she's your typical cute college girl. Nothing remarkable or unremarkable about her at all. Cute body, cute face, cute personality. John puts her on "myspace picture duty" as we continue to play Beruit.

Soon after, five strong, we make our way down the hill into the pit of sin, all while glittery explosives go off over our heads. The entire time the five-some is together, we're busting balls, laughing, clutching our stomaches, and weaving all over the road as we walk. People are lined up on both sides of the street, heads tilted skyward as they watch the pyrotechnics from their properties.

Almost as if, years ago it had been planned out, we pass by the sewage treatment plant as the entrance to the lower downtown area of Biddeford, where the "block party" is being held. All around us, carnivale-style games, people, food, etc surround us. The booms and sizzles of fireworks rain down on us from over head. The air is coated slickly with a haze of residual burning Marijuana, and it makes your skin feel greasy. Cheap looking, broken people shuffle their dirty-faced children past us. Each one of them clutching a plastic sword and swinging it expertly at crotch level.

We weave through the crowd and make our way to the bridge. Along the way we, inevitably, come across people we know- high school people, teachers, neighbors, etc. A guy I haven't seen since early on in college, comes up to John and I and puts us both in a head lock and squeezes. He goes on to tell us that the next day is the day he's signing his papers to be released from the Army. I tell him good luck with that.

We get offers to go drink at bars and parties and so on. But the collective mood of the five-some is to march back up the hill to John's, play a few more games of Beruit, and possibly clusterfuck.

Seriously.

We weave our way back through the crowd, heading back the way we've come. The fireworks are over now, with a substandard "grand finale" which lit up the sky like it was day time, and twice as loud, and suddenly I become aware of the increased police presence.

It seems all around us, cops in polos and standard uniforms, with ear pieces for their radios have materialized out of thin air. There's probably a ratio of every three people, one cop. It's startling.

Jerry is probably the most drunk out of everyone, and as we pass some carnivale-style games, the chatter starts to pick up.

One game involves a small inflatable pool filled with water containing rubber duckies. I'm not sure the premise of the game but that's exactly what it is. As we pass by, Dan says to Jerry, something like:

"I'll give you twenty bucks if you jump into that fucking pool,"

Of course, Jerry turns him down. It's going to take a considerably higher amount of money for him to engage in such baffoonery.

"Dude, back me up!" Dan slaps John on the chest and John grudgingly agrees to go in on twenty bucks as well. Now the dare's up to forty.

All eyes turn on to me. I look around, knowing that I don't have even ten dollars to my name, because I just paid all my bills today, I nod absently, and the crowd seems to go wild.

"Sixty bucks dude! Just jump in!" And Jerry still throws up the block.

This whole time, the only voice of sobriety and reason is Celeste's.

"You're so going to get arrested. There's cops all over the place," and this seems to hit home with Jerry immensely.

"Yeah dude, I don't want to get arrested on this dumb shit," He says and starts to balk, heading back towards John's house.

To be completely honest with you, gentle reader, I don't know why I chose the words to say at that particular moment, but maybe deep down, I wanted to see a little chubby guy jump into an inflatable pool filled with little rubber duckies. Maybe my dark side came out of me at that instant. Maybe I wanted to see if he'd get arrested, based purely on my deeply routed curiosity. Maybe I just wanted to call his bluff.

I lean over, touching Jerry's shoulder, placing my lips next to his ear lobe and say this:

"Do this, and you'll be the stuff of legends. People will talk about this for the rest of their lives. People you don't even know, but they're standing there, waiting for you to jump into that fucking pool. You'll be remembered forever. This is your legacy."

And with that, Jerry's eyes glazed over. A slow, goofy grin spread across his fat Donkey Lips lips and suddenly I glanced down and saw that he was standing in stocking feet, his shoes somehow coming off.

You see, men strive to leave a mark on this world, no matter how big or small. We want glory in all shapes and forms. To us we live for the conquest. This is why men climb Mt. Everest.

The psychological erection I gave him proved the jolt he needed. Much to the protest and physical strikes I was taking from Celeste, Jerry turned and started at a good trot towards the inflatable pool, some fifty yards back. We all stood watching in mixed disbelief, drunken grins pasted on to our faces, all of us chanting in unison "he's not really gonna..."

And then, he goes sideways in midair.

That's when I turned away, shocked, scared, knowing he was about to be swarmed upon by a mass of trigger happy Nazi, Nixon-esque Biddeford Cops.

What felt like an eternity passed as we four stood looking at each other. John starts to walk off, turning around only to say "I cant be caught up in this, I just applied to these guys like a week ago. Call me when you find out what his bail's going to be, and I'll come down and bail him. But I can't be here for this."

It's Dan who stands tall on behalf of his friend Jerry, stating "dude, we can't ditch him," and Celeste is quick to agree. Admittedly, my feelings were with John, and I teetered on the edge of staying or going, my vote being the decider.

But then, out of the crowd, as if it was the end of the film "Rudy" our pudgy counter part and La Kermesse Carnivale Terrorist remerges, soaked head to toe, jogging back to catch up with us. A roar goes out, as we collectively welcome him back, slaps on his back, hugs, and "holy shits" had all around.

Jerry ends up scraping his knees, and as he takes a seat by the sewage treatment plant, he retells of what happened:

"I fucking jumped in, and this guy, this guy grabs my collar on my shirt and goes 'you're not going anywhere' and I tried to run, but this cop comes up to me and goes 'do you have three hundred dollars for bail?' and I say 'no sir,' and he asks me my name and I tell him, and that was it." And for as simple of a story as it is, we're all huddled around our new hero in total awe.

"That was some pretty stupid shit," he finishes. He also makes it known that he wants his money ASAP.

We climb the hill back to John's house where things eventually wind down. Jerry and Dan decide to go out to Old Orchard to meet up with some other people to retell the tale of the night. Celeste, expertly deflecting my drunken horny advances, decides to go home ("I've gotta get home," she says "You can come back to my home," I come back with, "it's a home....") and I pick up my bag, wish everyone a good night, and manage to drive myself home without getting pulled over.

...And that's why I don't go to La Kermesse.

On The Road: My Roommate The Philistine.

(I produce a blue harmonica in C Major from my pocket)
Roommate: What the hell is that!?
Me: ...A harmonica?
RM: Why?
Me: I'm going to play it on the ride home...
RM: but dude I wanted to listen to music on the ride home!
Me: But this is music... (Plays a few notes)
RM: That's not music that's just sound!

God Is My Co-Pilot (He Rides On My License Plate!)

For the life of me I couldn't tell you why I was watching FOX News last night when a story about how Florida wanted to sell to it's drivers, a religious license plate that can be registered to your car.

The show featured some obnoxious ultra-conservative spawn of Anne Coulter-twat who was (of course) in favor of the license plate, and a Reverend of the Humanists Church, who was against. As hard as he tried, the reverend was constantly cut off by the show's host, who kept repeating "c'mon, is it that bad, really Rev.?"

I could easily launch into a tirade about how ridiculous FOX News is, but I won't. Instead, I'll talk about the need for seperation between Church and State.

And to answer the blonde Nazi's question, yeah, it's really that bad. I mean, look:

Real subtle Florida.

I mean, my problem is two-fold; on one hand you have this whole, exclusivity to the license plate itself. It's one thing to be religious, but there are hundreds of religions out there, practiced by millions of people. I'm sure there's plenty of dumb-fuck Christian Floridians who would love to add this to their rotting Dodge Daytonas and Chevy Cameros, to show off to all their neighbors that they peel rubber for Jesus, but what about Jews, Muslims, or whatever the hell Chinese people worship?

I mean, not everyone in the world is a fan of NASCAR, you know?

Part two of my rant is that this is in blantant disregard for Church/State seperation. The woman on the show, who I believe to be a robot fueled by Bill O'Rielly's sweat, was like "I think the framers of the Constitution wouldn't mind this at all, I think they'd be for it!"

Bitch, have you ever taken a Con-Law class? Highly doubtful. Why? Because it is against the Constitution of the United States for any state or government enitity to endorse one sole (soul?) religion. And by the looks of things, Florida is all but short of putting "He Died For You!" on the bottom of the plate.

And what about the Aetheist? Are we going to subject these heathens to being stuck in traffic behind some asshole with this plate, silently cursing under his breath as he loads rounds into the magazine of his 9mm?

What about the Witches?! You may become cursed by some sort of Earth Spell should you drive your beat up scratched to hell VW around town with a Jesus plate.

You know, there's a rich Hatian culture in Florida... where's the Voodoo plate?

And the Nihilists! They don't even believe the license plate exists!

Do you know why states put out these speciality plates? It's so the state can earn funds from the people who are buying that particular plate. As far as I know, the State of Maine has like, 8 different plates you can choose from, from Yellow Ribbon plates to University of Maine plates to Abnaki Tribe plates, and so on. Every one of those plates is a certain dollar extra amount every time you register your vehicle for the year. And that money goes to the state.

So basically, The State of Florida is cashing in on Religion. I don't know who I'm more disgusted in; The State of Florida for cashing in on people's beliefs, or the people themselves, who'd go out of their way to spend their money on religion outside of church collections, red cans manned by a bell ringing Santa or Oakie-Fare Tent Revivalists.

Goddamnit.

Sunday: Then and Now

While uploading some pics from Bike Week on my parents computer (and I guess, further procrastinating on that whole article...) I came across some pics of me from like, four or more years ago. It's crazy to see how much I've changed!

Take a look for yourself:

James, as of 2008:

And James back in 2004:


Weird how time changes people.

Dead!

I took one class in human psychology, so that makes me an expert. Seriously.

Based on my schoolings, I believe the individual can categorize his or her fears into two piles: rational and irrational fears. A rational fear is something like "I'm scared of bugs and snakes." or "I'm afraid of the dark, because I can't see what's beyond my outstretched hand." An irrational fear is like "I'm afraid of disappointing my fans by putting on a sub par performance in my latest film about super heroes," or "I'm afraid I'm going to wake up next to my dead girlfriend one morning."

The latter is a fear I never considered until this morning.

Let me paint this picture: The Lady doesn't sleep often, she grapples with insomnia, but when she does sleep it's not like the deepest sleep out there. This morning, my alarm went off at 9, I popped up out of bed and shut it down. I then crawled back into bed, curled up next to my girlfriend who was back-to to me and wrapped her up and gave her a kiss on the shoulder, saying "hey, it's 9,".

I noticed right away how clammy her skin was.

Before I go any further, let me give my readers a little insight into my past: I've seen a lot of dead bodies. I've seen a lot of dead women it seems. Out of all the dead bodies I've seen, only two were men, one was a 19 year old who took a hot-shot of brown powder up his nose and never woke up, really bumming out his friends and the owner of the cottage he expired in, and the other was a 47 year old mama's boy who ate himself to death in his kitchen. Every other body was female, and 50% naked.

So back to this morning, I give The Lady a gentle shake and she's completely limp. I poke her hard in her spine: nothing. Not even a grunt. I stay completely still trying to see if she's moving at all, her breath, anything (in hindsight, I should've checked for a pulse, but I was quickly sliding into full on panic mode) I'm saying her name louder and louder. Now I'm naked and up on my knees over here, shaking her, almost yelling.

"Hey!

"HEY!

"LADY!"

And then she pops up, half spins and looks me dead in my eyes with pools of purplish/blue. For a second a wave of whatever you wanna call it - when you thank god for a miracle - washes over me. I collapse on top of her, holding her super tight and breathing hard.

"What? What's the matter?" She says.

"I thought you were dead..." and it sounds so stupid coming out of my mouth. How very irrational. I just lay there and she holds me, probably wondering to herself "what the fuck did I just miss?"

I have fears, I have more than I'd like. And I never thought one of them was ever an irrational fear, because I thought that an irrational fear could never strike your psyche the same way a regular ol' fashion fear of fucking mice could.

But now I know different.

Pooped

I don't want to say I'm "officially" out of ideas, but I'm feeling pretty tapped.

I got nothing.

SO... what I'm going to do is leave it up to my readers. What do you guys want to see me write about? Whatever topic, I don't care. Give me your ideas and check back in a few days to see if I flesh something out of it.

I dunno, it's like 4 am on a Saturday, and as of right now, my brain's having a hard enough time piecing together sentences, let alone article topics.

An Open Letter To My Girlfriend's Pre-Menstral Cramps:

Hey Cramps,

It's about that time of the month again; where you guys show up, kinda uninvited, but expected, as usual, and make me and my girlfriend's lives a living hell for about a week. Not unsimilar to the in-laws just showing up.

Hey, I for one, love it when you guys come around. It tells me something, it's good to see you, and honestly, it doesn't bother me all that much, not as much as say, The Lady. But then again, she's the one who has to put up with you for a week, while I luckily get to work all week here at the station. She gets to be the mascot for the couple, the face on the packaging, whereas I get to hunker down and wait out the storm far, far away.

But I was wondering if you could do me a favor? While your visiting for the next week or so, could you at least keep it down a little? The Lady has hard enough time getting to sleep at night, so the whole "bloaty, fat and ugly" feeling your giving her, isn't helping that situation much. Also, she won't complain directly to you guys for making her feel like a swollen wallrus, but she'll complain to me, ad nauseum, for the next couple of days - she'll gorge on chocolate and lay dispondently in bed resting her mac book on her uterus as a heating pad.

I don't mean to make light of your stay with us, and like I said, I'm all for you guys being here, especially since we tend to engage in condomless sex all the time, but is there anything you can do to not be such a hard-on to The Lady? Like, ease up a little bit?

When you get down to it, I just don't want to end up like Ritchie in the second season of The Sopranos, and be pumped full of holes by my girlfriend and then chopped up in a butcher shop by a junkie and a zip, never to be heard from again.

Also, not being able to bump uglies for a week is kinda a bummer.

Thanks, and see you next month (hopefully.),
Jim.

The Things My Roommate Says, Vol 2

A whole new batch of insane mutterings from my 19 year old Las Vegan roommate:

-Dude, I'm going to be a *whispers* spy! No one would expect me!

-You know what, you're Sundown. You're the black dude with the aviators. You're not even Iceman or Goose. No, you're not Sundown, you're Hollywood. You never even made it to Top Gun.

-I couldn't sleep last night. I watched something on the news about these kids that got involved in a drug deal and the deal went bad. So the one kid took out a Samurai Sword and chopped off the head of the other kid. That's why I couldn't fall asleep.

-(At Wendy's, opening up his burger and inspecting the contents) Does this look like drugs? I think someone's trying to drug me....

-Let me borrow your sunglasses. No? Ok, let me borrow one of your black t shirts. And your leather jacket. The brown leather one. ...And your bike. For like five minutes.

-I dropped my waterbottle outside on the ground by my truck and then I sipped out of it. Do you think that'd make me fail a drug test?

-I need a cross bow to protect myself. (Someone asks him 'from what?') Ninjas.

-I'm gonna go to the movies. I'm getting two tickets, one for me, and one for Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. (I ask him who that is) That's my dick. I'm going to the movies with my dick and I'm going to buy him popcorn.

-Hook me up with your girlfriend's sister. She's going through an emotional transition right now and needs a guy like me.

More Obnoxious Than That Couple From "The Hills."

Sadly, this is a very typical conversation for us...

me: well what about the place in Yarmouth?
The Lady: no dice
bc of Cali
me: Beause of Cali?
The Lady: her cat
me: I thought they said small pets were ok?
The Lady: evidently, she lied
me: or were they talking like... fucking fish and hamsters
The Lady: fucked if i know
i'm getting a little frustrated Sent at 12:56 PM on Tuesday
me: I don't blame you
I went through this exact same thing when I was looking for a place back whenever
it sucks
like, in nyc... there's more than enough places..most of them are shitholes, but...I had a new apt lined up in a week
here it took me a month
The Lady: well...this is the cape..yea
me: the cape is ghey
The Lady: yup
me: so we had an awesome ride
absolutely awesome
I got up to 90mph
The Lady: dont tell me that
me: ok.
The Lady: ugh
me: I was NOT doing 90mph.at all.,
The Lady: and dont lie to me
me: does it count if my father lies to you as my proxy?
The Lady: yes
no
i mean
me: ...
The Lady: just dont tell me when you hit a speed that will kill you
ok?
i dont need the anxiety
me: heh, ok
The Lady: ]well
me: no no, I'm sorry, .... you're right
The Lady: you can tell me if we get married and i get benies if you die
me: but I am sitting here with the world's biggest shit eating grin.
The Lady: hahaha
me: and that's fucked up.
The Lady: what
no its not
me: so suddenly it's ok if we're married
and...I'm like "Oh, I'm going to go jump out of a plane this afternoon..."and you're like "have fun! Don't pack a chute!"and then you cackle menacingly
The Lady: well, its not like you wouldnt be slightly set if i died
unless, my dad some how manages to drain my trust fund even more by then.... Sent at 1:04 PM on Tuesday
me: so I should be encouraging you to do more vodka snooters then?"no no hunny, c'mon, like a champ!"
The Lady: if you want me to kill myself, then sure! Sent at 1:06 PM on Tuesday
me: ... no I don't
because then I'd be left with no one to impress
and I'd gain a shit-ton of weight
The Lady: i'm sure you could find someone else
me: Sure. But they wouldn't be you.
and you're all I want.
The Lady: i'll keep that in mind when i'm inspecting my food for ground up glass
me: heh... that's some prison-y shit
I saw them do that on"Oz" back in the day
The Lady: heh
me: that was a great show, if not for all the man on man butt-rape
The Lady: my buddy crash made me watch a couple episodes
he loved it
i could have cared less
me: like, it was cool an all, but... like eventually they just ran out of ideas
because honestly, how many stories can revolve around the same dudes sitting in a yard all day
The Lady: some of it was kinda disturbing
me: I mean, sure, add a new character but it's all the same
The Lady: like getting encased behind a brick wall Sent at 1:11 PM on Tuesday
me: 'hey,did you take down your profile on wordpress?
The Lady on blogger yea
me: oh. cuz my dad was just in here and wanted to see a picture of you
so I clicked over to your blog
and there's fucking... Amy Crackhouse
The Lady: thats a crap pic anyway
HAHAHA
me: and he goes "Jesus Jim!"
sigh...
The Lady: awww, i feel bad
not really Sent at 1:14 PM on Tuesday
me: oh yeah, duh, faebook
The Lady: my boyfriend everyone....hes brolliant
and i cant spell
me: yeah, pot calls kettle black, more at 11
The Lady: fuck you
me: me: Yeah, this is her facebook page...
Dad: she's cute!
Me: She's not blonde anymore...
Dad: well as long as the drapes match the carpet.......and you wonder where I get it from?
The Lady: my jaw just hit the floor
me: yeah, that's my dad.
The Lady: oi vey
me: Shhh!! Don't do that, he'll think you're jewish or something...say something catholic-y, quick
The Lady: ummmummm
me: hurry!
The Lady: a priest molested my ex boyfriend
me: ....I was going to suggest "hey, do you have anymore of those Jesus Waffers around here?"
The Lady: dont put me on the spot like that!!!!
YOU ASS
me: My ass is made of vanilla, btw
The Lady: jeff says congrats
me: on?
The Lady: keeping my interest for more than a week
he just asked who i was g chatting w
me: oh, I thought he was going to congratulate me on having a delicious ass.
The Lady: i said james, he said "wow, still? tell him congrats!"
me: tell him that I love being hung up on...because it makes me feel like a winner.
The Lady: he hung up on you?
me: well
not really
I was like "can I talk to The Lady?"
and he goes "she's busy right now"
and I go "well ok, this is Jim, can you just have her call me back?"
and there was nothing... and then click.
so I was like "well alright then, nice."
The Lady: yea
hes not too keen on pple calling me at work
when my sister calls and i dont pick up she pretneds she dialed the wrong #
me: heh
nice
ok... I'm going to attempt to load my bike before dad rips up a doob... so...I'm going to post this as a blog
and then be on my marry way
The Lady: this conversation?
me: this conversation
and I'll alter your name
The Lady: ok
me: I'll call you when I get in... or email... whatever
smoke signals
You'll know when I'm in town.
The Lady: ok love you n shit
me: roger that! Sent at 1:25 PM on Tuesday

...The Wind Knocked Out Of Me...

Ever get that feeling, where you're stunned and that feeling where all the air in your body got sucked out with such efficiency that you're left feeling tighter on the insides?

I get that feeling from time to time, especially when I feel like I fucked something up, big time.

I won't go into details, but this wash of horribleness is all over me and I can't shake it. I know things will be ok, and in a sense this is just kind of a test of a person's mettle and commitment, but all in all, I can't help feeling like a total piece of shit.

I'll get over it. It's out there.

Seriously, write your own joke....

This story, taken from (I think Reuters?), is probably the most articulate description of a New York Yankees fan, ever published. Go Sox.

BOOSH.

The Things My Roommate Says, Vol 1

My roommate says a lot of just... bizarre shit. Honestly, it's like he channels dead retarded people. So I figure once in a while I'll list out some of the stranger shit that's come forth from his albino-like face.

Here's the latest sampling, and before you ask, no, I'm not making this shit up:

-"So, is it bad if I stick a Q-Tip into my ear far enough, it makes me cough?"

-(upon wandering into my room and speaking to my back) "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to be like, back in the day, like a pirate? ...I bet you'd be one of those good pirates, huh?"

-"Dude, I'm getting an anaconda. And when you're sleeping, I'm going to send him into your room to do recon missions....

-"Dude, these cigarettes are like, a delicious breakfast."

-"Flashing... lights! ...Flashing... lights! Doo-ta-doo-ta-ta-doo-ta-ta-doo-ta-ta, Flashing...lights!"

-"If you get a puppy, like one of those hotdog-dogs, I'm going to put it in a box with my pet anaconda and I'm going to put my feet up and watch them fight. No wait, I'm not gonna put them in a box, I'm going to make the anaconda hunt the puppy."

-"I just want to find a girlfriend that I can actually take out."

-"What? So I shave my pubes, what?"

-"Ever watch a midget play soccer, bro? It's the funniest shit ever! That and watching them climb stairs!"

-(while playing the Hole game, crying foul on a called Look): "That's bullshit, ...that's a balk."

-(A few moments ago): Me: Ryan, say one of those crazy things you say...
RM: Why? Wait, what crazy things I say?
Me: You know, like the crazy shit you say...
RM: Why?
Me: Cuz I'm writing this article about the crazy shit you say and I need a good one to go out on...
RM: I DON'T SAY CRAZY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK!? ...Dude I can't wait to get back to the apartment to play GTA...

My Mom and Her Self Defense Class, Part 2, Plus Other Happenings in the Last 24 Hours

So imagine to my surprise when I get this email on my Blackberry yesterday:

"Jim,

I broke my wrist Saturday during the practical excerise [sic] :( I'm home from work for a few days. Call me.

Love,
Mom"

So, the partially chewed cracker spills from my mouth-ajar and I call her instantly. I put her on speaker phone because I'm a massively lazy dick.

"What the hell happened!" I say into the phone. There's a pause on the other end.

"Hello?" Jesus.

"Mom? What happened!"

"Don't yell at me!" She says.

"I'm not yelling, you're just on speaker, mum"

"Why am I on speaker?"

"Because I'm lazy, now tell me what happened to you on Saturday..." There's another long pause followed by a slow drawn out sigh.

"Well we were doing the practical and... you know they're really good, right? Well, they were putting us through all these scenarios... whether we were being cornered at a bar or at an ATM or whatever. And I was so nervous James. On the video, I'm standing there in line, waiting for my turn, swinging my arms and...

...so anyway, I get up and we're dressed in all this stuff, like hockey gloves and catcher's masks and so on, and well, I hit this guy in the face. And when I hit him he went down and was like 'whoooaaa' but at the same time I felt my wrist kinda ... pop. It didn't start bothering me until I got back from the ice capades and my wrist was all swollen."

Leave it to my mother, to go from whooping some dude's ass to the ice capades. Awesome.

In other news the roommate and I went to go see "Street Kings" last night. We sat in a virtually empty theatre rows and seats apart. We decided that we really didn't need to sit right next to each other because well... that'd be kinda gay, even though everyone at the station, including The Lady, thinks we're gay for each other.

What else, what else. I can't really concentrate right now because The Lady is over here, on my bed wearing an ironic Transformer's t shirt and yoga pants. Upon her entry into my apt I commented:

"Cool shirt, but I was more of a Megatron fan growing up. Actually cancel that - I was a Sound Wave fan, because I liked how we talked... all synthesizer-y." She comments back that she actually hates the Transformers. I don't hold it against her, considering she's a chick and... probably played with Barbies while I was playing with a tractor trailer truck that would morph into a red and blue robot with a few quick snaps of plastic.

At the mall today, again the roommate mentioned he was still in some sort of limited contact with his whale of a lay from a week or so ago. He's been ignoring everyone's advice to sever ties, and though he claims he directly called her "fat" via a text message, she still talks to him.

"Dude, she's a stalker with dependency issues, you need to full-out stop talking to her, she's dangerous," I say as I'm browsing for a plain brown belt at Pacific Sunwear (they only make belts for skinny hipster kids, apparently, size 34? c'mon...)

"I can't... what if I stop talking to her and like a month from now she comes back at me with 'oh hey, I'm pregnant...'" He says with a hint of anxiety. I roll my eyes. He's been playing out this scenario of the last two weeks it would seem.

"That's beyond likely, because you wore a condom, right?"

"Yeah."

"So why are you stressing out over stupid shit like that?"

"Dude, I dunno, it's just like, I don't want it to happen..."

"Then why do you still talk to her. If that's what you're worried about, getting the hell away from her would seem the likely thing to do. If a little while goes by and she's like 'oh I'm pregnant' and you've still been in touch with her, she's going to stick you with a baby that may or may not be yours, oppose to if you cut ties with her, and a year from now she comes back at you with some screaming hellspawn, you can be like 'bitch I don't even know who you are, we've never met.'" It doesn't exactly sink in.

"But, what if she IS pregnant!"

"What makes you think she is? And a bitch saying she's pregnant is likely trying to get you to stick around, when she's not even knocked up! It's the same thing with the hundred dollar Lacoste cologne she bought you. She's setting a trap. You don't owe that bitch anything, so why are you acting like you do? You know what," and this is where I start to get angry. "I'm actually going to order you to stop talking to her. That's a serious order."

He looks at me blankly.

"You can't do that," he says.

"The fuck I can! I out rank you by one grade. You take orders from me. And you're now ordered not to speak to that fat bitch." He looks at me for a long time and says nothing. "This mall needs an Orange Julius," I say after a prolonged silence.

We're on our way out the door to the truck when I spot this hot little number walking into the Marshal's.

"Go talk to her, go get her, catch up to her," I nudge my roommate. He half steps.

"You go get her," he comes back with.

"I can't. I'm kinda... you know, caught up in something. Just go up to her, say 'hey, I saw you from back there, I don't know who you are, and you don't know who I am, but I want to change that. Give me your number and let me take you out to dinner this weekend'. Just be fucking direct. Girls love a guy with balls who'll just ask them out. If she says she has a boyfriend, tell her you don't care, it's just dinner. If she says 'no thank you' tell you won't take no for an answer. Don't come across aggressive or... fucking... crazy, just be your sweet self, be assertive, take control. Who's in control here?"

"...I dunno, bro..." His posture starts to melt.

"WHO'S IN CONTROL HERE!" I yell. People are now staring at us. I look around and make direct eye contact with a few of the weird goths out in the midday sun at the mall. "Fuck it, you lost her, massive fail." She's no longer in eye sight and I start for the door.

"I'm sorry, bro" he says from behind me.

Yeah, me too.