Remember, Remember, the 23rd of October

Please join me in forgetting the fact that I am turning 26 in a few days (lies, I tell you!), and instead focus on how awesomely cool the 23rd of October is. By the end of this post, you will totally hate your birthday because it is lame and is not invited to the cool birthday birthday party (I’ve only had one cup of coffee this morning, leave me alone!).

October 23rd falls on an astrological cusp. This is a day where two zodiological (which apparently isn’t a word, says spell check) signs merge to form an awesome, uber-starsign (which also isn’t a word). Some horoscopes say the 23rd is the last day for Libra, others say it is the first day for Scorpio. So you know what that means? I get to read TWO horoscopes! Let’s say the Libra one claims I’m going to get run over by a car. No problem, I’ll just be a Scorpio on that day! Can you do that? No. I didn’t think so. Now, technically, if you are born in the morning you are a Cusp Libra, and if you are born in the afternoon you are a Cusp Scorpio. But this is stupid, cause if someone asks you your sign, and everyone does this still, right?, you’re not going to say “Well, technically, I’m a blah blah blah WTF.” You’re going to say “Scorpio,” cause they’re good in the sack. Libras cry a lot. Or so I’m assuming, based on personal experience.

The stock market started to crash on October 23, 1929. The full melt down didn’t happen until a few days later, but the Great Depression technically started on my birthday. So without my birthday, you would never get the Great Depression and therefore no World War II and therefore no Raiders of the Lost Ark and Wolfenstein 3D. No, you’re welcome. Also, that little recession we are still going through would have been called the Great Depression. So now you didn’t have to live through the Depression. No, you’re welcome.

Oh, we ain’t done yet! October 23 is also Mole Day. Because I have no idea what the fuck this means, I will copy and paste this line of text from Wikipedia and let you sort it out: “Mole Day is an unofficial holiday celebrated among chemists in North America on October 23, between 6:02 AM and 6:02 PM, making the date 6:02 10/23 in the American style of writing dates. The time and date are derived from the Avogadro constant, which is approximately 6.02×10^23, defining the number of particles (atoms or molecules) in a mole, one of the seven base SI units.” Yeah, suck on that October 24th!

Hey, anyone here like Communist Russia? Sure, who the heck doesn’t?!? Lenin called for the October Revolution on October 23, 1917. So without October 23rd, there would be no Cold War or campus Marxists clubs or James Bond movies or Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Oh, and Hitler would have won World War II. Kinda puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?

Hey, believe the Earth is only a few thousand years old? In 1650, an archbishop for the Catholic Church (cause they’re always right) used the Bible and the dates within to calculate the day the world was created. What date would that be? Funny you should ask! October 23, 4004 BC. So I was born ON THE DAY THE WORLD WAS CREATED (supposedly, according to 1650 theological science). Your birthday = FAIL.

Boy, iPods sure are great, aren’t they? It would suck if there were no October 23, 2001, because then Apple would not have released the iPod and would have gone bankrupt and you would still be listening to your Sony Discman right now. Or a (shudder) Zune. But without an iPod there would be no crappy alternative from Microsoft, so that’s a moot point. And, perhaps most tragic of all, the world would have never seen Feist’s “1234″ video. And there wouldn’t be an iPhone. And you couldn’t download the cool songs from Glee the next morning on iTunes. And you’d probably be iDead, killing yourself out of boredom. Suicide? There’s probably an app for that… thanks to October 23!

There are also 69 days left until the new year. Tee hee.

Goodness gracious me, we haven’t even gotten to the birthdays on October 23! Let’s list some, shall we?

- Isabella of Portugal (whom I thought sponsored Columbus or something but then I realized I was an idiot and she did practically nothing. Still. She was smokin’)

- Johnny Carson (you might have heard of him. Jack Nicholson is a big fan)

- Harold P. Warren (any Mystery Science Theater 3000 fans surely knows of Manos: The Hands of Fate. Mr. Warren was the El Paso fertilizer salesman responsible for that. My success in filmmaking is assured!)

- Pele (who apparently plays some sport called “soccer.” Never herd of it either)

- Michael Crichton (we have a T-rex!)

- Ang Lee (another director! Is this fate? He made Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon and Brokeback Mountain. So my dreams of making a gay samurai movie are all but assured!)

- Dwight Yoakam (of Panic Room fame)

- Nancy Grace (actually a little ashamed about this one. WHY IS SHE YELLING AT ME?)

- Sam Raimi (what’s this? Another director? The maker of The Evil Dead and Spiderman? So my dreams of making a superhero horror movie [where everyone is gay] are all but assured!)

- Weird Al Yankovic (this ALONE makes my birthday cooler than yours!)

- Doug Flutie (Flutie Flakes!)

- Augusten Burroughs (did you know that’s not his real name?)

- Ryan Reynolds (Google a picture of Ryan Reynolds, then tell me you ain’t jealous )

- Meghan McCain (meaning that John McCain and Cindy McCain had sex around roughly the same time my parents did, albeit a few years later. It’s science, really)

- Princess Mako of Japan (meaning that one day I, too, can be empress of Japan! Oh, joy!)

So I basically went through all this research to make me feel better about turning 26. Whatever it takes. And I’ve decided it takes alcohol. And the knowledge that your birthday sucks and mine doesn’t.

In other news, I’m turning 26 in a few days. This concerns me.

Catching Up Is Hard to Do

-Wait, wait, wait. I have a blog? Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me about this?

-Here at the old advertising agency, we’ve had a problem with solicitors coming up to sell us stuff. This has prompted outrage among the staff, who have decided they don’t like to be interrupted by people selling them stuff. The irony is more ironic than the amount of irony in Alanis Morisette’s song. And since that song was not at all ironic, this is pretty ironic… don’t you think?

-So in reading a review on the new Beatles box set today (cause apparently the Beatles albums have simply not been released enough times), a sobering fact was pointed out to me. I will share that fact, now, without a “Works Cited” page. When The Beatles’ last album, Abbey Road, was recorded in 1969, George was 26, Paul 27, John 28, and Ringo 29. I’m turning 26 in a month and I can’t even update my damn blog in a timely fashion. In addition, and this is where things get really mind-blowing, their debut album, Please Please Me, was released in 1963. So in the span of SIX YEARS, The Beatles went from unknowns to boy band to hippie drug freaks to artists to the most important band ever in the history of the world until Matchbox 20. So, 1963. Imagine a band that came out in 2003 and having that kind of impact today, in 2009.

-Summer movies? Well, Star Trek was the best. And I think I have a specific reason why. No, it’s not because Star Trek is cool, cause it’s really not. What I appreciated above all was the movie’s inability to take itself too seriously. I was afraid the filmmakers would try to darken up a story that doesn’t need to be dark. “Dark Knight” it, if you will. And while that works for Batman, ignoring the fact that he’s a billionaire that flies around like a fucking bat at night, it doesn’t work for Star Trek, especially old-school, Kirk and Spock Trek. So ignoring the stupid time travel story (I swear, between this and Lost, if I never see another time-travel related story again, I’ll be as happy as I would be if I never saw another time-travel story again), I loved the movie. It was funny and exciting and did not try to be what it wasn’t supposed to be. Also too, Chris Pine. Other summer movies:

Inglourious Basterds: More like Glorious Non-bastards. It totally wasn’t what I expected it to be, and it was better for it. I was expecting Kill Bill 1 and I got Kill Bill 2. And this works just fine. I’ve seen it twice and can’t wait to see it again.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: More like Harry Potter and the Half-Assed Movie. I swear, I don’t think I’ve seen more of a lack of plot progression since the third season of Lost. This is the first of these movies that my brain has flat-out rejected. It worked fine as a book. But as a movie? Bleh.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen: More like TransfAHHHHHHH SHITS BLOWING UP PAY ATTENTION TO THE SCREEN YOU FUCKING PANSY OR WE’LL SHOOT YOUR FUCKING DOG! AM I SHAKING YOU TOO HARD? WHY YOU CRYING? If you ever wanted to know what it felt like to be in a plane crash, this is probably close. Not saying it was bad or anything. It was actually really fun. But the migraine, oh, the migraine.

District 9: More like District…um…good movie? This was a good movie. I had no idea what it was about going in. So it made it better. Also, props for a lot of these movies returning to 80s-style violence. 80s violence is cool.

I can’t remember any more.

-I traveled to two places this summer. The first was Lubbock, where I played beer pong and drank for about three days straight. I also think I picked up some sort of horrendous disease during my stay. The second trip was Jacksonville, Florida, to shoot a commercial with a real, live Olympic gold medalist! As I have referenced before, I love the Olympics, and the opportunity to prance (and prance is the correct word here) around with a gold medal around my neck was just the bees knees. Also, Florida smells like feet.

-So let’s talk about that horrendous disease, eh? Circa end of July of this summer, I got sick one night. Nothing major, felt like a sinus infection. I stayed home from work, I drank orange juice, I thought I had recovered.

But the sickness had other plans…

As did my liver, apparently. So one night after getting absolutely embarrassingly drunk the night before, I’m over at Billy and the Gretch’s, about to go party, and I feel weak again. I check my temperature, and it’s 99. Any normal person would say, at this point, “You know? Maybe I should sit this party out. You know, seeing as how I might have assassinated my liver last night.” Not P.A. Austin though (the P.A. stands for Party Animal!). But it’s a hat party, and I really want to wear this hat made for Gretchen’s schnauzer Emma, so I go and hope more alcohol makes things better.

Of course things don’t get better. When we arrive back from the party, I’m up to 101 and officially, on the record, sick. I stay over at B and Gs cause I literally cannot move. I don’t even want to eat, which if you know me, is immediate cause for concern. We throw on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’m too sick to even cry when Splinter “dies.” Yadda yadda yadda by three or four in the morning my fever is up to 105. My fever is so high that I require freaking surveillance (thanks, Gretchen!).

I haven’t even explained the worst part of all this yet. Fever, pain, nausea, aches, I can take all that. But oh my Christ, the sore throat. I wanted to cry every time I swallowed (TWSS). Imagine, if you will, swallowing a samurai sword covered in other samurai swords covered in bee stingers dipped in poison and on fire. And there’s eight of these sword-bee contraptions going down your throat.

The sore throat and the ungodly temperature and the weird-ass dreams that I can’t remember scared me enough to go to an emergency care clinic the next day, since it was Sunday and my doc was unavailable. Two things about emergency care: 1) I felt safer there than I did at the St. David’s emergency room and, 2) don’t go to one. Your insurance probably doesn’t cover it. I have the bills to prove it. But they give me meds and by that night, my fever breaks, my appetite returns, and I am able to go to work the next morning. The throat still hurts, but it becomes more manageable each day.

So I think I’ve made a full recovery.

But the sickness, which I have named “D1FU1,” or colloquially “Douche Flu,” had other plans…

I’m at work, a week and a half after. Feeling great. I’m telling you, I had made a FULL recovery. I could even swallow again (TWSS)! But I’m sitting at my desk, watching J-Pop music videos, and I feel it. The ache. A slight scratching in the throat. Fuck. Douche Flu is back.

I go home after work and collapse. Fever gets up to 101. Samurai-bee-fire is back in my throat. I watch Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I’m too sick to even cry at the end when the cute little alien comes out and shares hand signals with the French guy. At the doctor the next day, I’m all like, “what the fuck?” Only I don’t say fuck cause he knows my parents and I want him to think that I think my parents will be mad at me if they think I think saying fuck is bad.

Here’s where the plot thickens. He says but one word to me: mono.

Mono? Am I thirteen and at summer camp? No, I’m 25 and on my way to becoming an old spinster. How the fuck did I get mono? I mean, I’ve got theories and all, but seriously. The mono screen he gives me turns out to be inconclusive, meaning I could have mono or it could still be Douche Flu. I swear, every medical test I ever take always turns up “inconclusive.” I always show the symptoms of something, but then that something doesn’t show up on the test, and I don’t get the good drugs.

Doc proceeds to tell me that it could also be a bacterial infection. But since the fucking strep screen came back negative to, I’m a medical-fucking-enigma, worthy of a guest spot on House. Doc decides to treat it as mono AND bacterial infection. So not only am I a whore, but I’m a dirty whore.

More antibiotics, more rest. And I make a full recovery. I am able to attend my grandpa’s 80th birthday party, the Redskin Ranch housewarming, and clean my entire filthy-ass apartment, top to bottom. Feeling great. Great great great. Things could not get greater.

But Douche Flu (mono and bacterial infection combo) had other plans…

Sunday a week later and I’m freaking out. My throat STILL HURTS. But this time, there is no fever or aches. Just a sore throat. And the sore throat is not severe, just a pain in the ass…er, throat. So I convince myself that it’s all over and I’m dying. I mean, this has to be throat cancer, right? And throughout the week, my throat continues to bother me even though I feel fine in every other possible way. Except emotionally, of course.

It takes another entire TWO WEEKS for the scratchiness in the throat to go away. And I can occasionally feel it back there, scratching, waiting like the douche that it is. Douche Flu can strike at any moment kids.

Finally, the moral of this story is I was sick for an entire month and I somehow gained a pound. Other people drop like twenty. I gain one. Mother. Fuck.

-Boy, it’s sure gonna be fun when we all get Swine Flu!

-After a few months off, you’d think I’d have more to say. But I don’t. This is assuming you don’t need my recap of the VMAs?

One Year

Exactly one year ago today, Morgan and I were bored and said, “Hey, blogging, that could be fun!” And it just so happens that I was almost run over by some douche as I walked to my garage after work. Thus, Just Like the City was born, and it’s been a hell of a ride.

I really don’t need to expand from there, cause you know the rest of the story. Just Like the City went on to become one of the most popular blogs in America, a bastion of truth and humor in these turbulent times we call the… um… have we still not come up with any name for this decade besides “the aughts?” America needed a voice for the little people, to stand up against hipster douches, killer roofing, and militant Mormans, and by God, the blog delivered! It’s been hard to update lately, what with the book deal and talk show appearances, but rest assured I have not forgotten. When I have something to bitch about, you’ll hear it hear first. Unless you hear it from me personally first. But really, is there a difference?

Okay, so maybe I haven’t set the world on fire, but it has been fun! When people ask me when I’m ever going to post again, it kinda makes me feel good. It’s almost like they are saying, “You just don’t work for me in real life. But the blog! It’s hilarious!” So, hey, at least someone’s getting something out of it, right?

I really don’t know what to say beyond things that are self serving right now. I just wanted you to know that I know it’s been one year. I just wanted you to know that I know it’s been yet another month since I updated. I just wanted you to know that I know that you don’t care. I want you to know I WANT you to know (Quiz Time: name that movie! Unless your name is Billy. Hint: you can’t like this movie AND believe in God, candlestickers).

And because you care, my most popular post so far has been the Glow in the Dark concert review, followed by my Indiana Jones review, followed by my original hipster douche screed, followed by my favorite post about how my favorite book ended up in the trash (though, not literally. I sold it for drug money).

Anyway, moving on, the reason I haven’t posted in so long is cause A) I’ve been hella busy at work, which is when I do all my blogging and B) cause I’m cooking up a pretty good post as we speak. The thing is, I accidently erased it like I was a sixty-year old woman using the interwebs for the first time. So I had to construct it from scratch, cause it was a long one. But I hope you like it. How’s that for antici…. pation? (Quiz Time: name that movie! Unless your name is Billy. Hint: fishnet stockings).

And now… cake!

SXSW: A Local’s Perspective

I knew on Saturday, when it took me approximately eight hours to travel from 183 to 38th Street on I-35, that it was that special time of year again. The internet is sluggish, cell phone service has crashed, streets are blocked, the air is heavy with every type of smoke imaginable, and everyone looks like mannequins from Buffalo Exchange.

SXSW 2009 is here.

I bet you think you know where this is going but, for the record, I do not hate SXSW, nor do I begrudge the legions of hipster and techy douches descending on our city. I am fully aware of the amount of money this thing brings into the local economy, a fact even more important this year. I am also incredibly proud that so many people would spend their spring breaks going to this thing, making Austin an actual tourist destination. Seriously, people LOVE this city. And for a week it becomes their playground. And that is totally fine with me. I love it when people love Austin (in every way imaginable).

But I came to the conclusion last year that SXSW simply isn’t for people that already live here, unless you happen to be hardcore into the music, film, or interactive scene. I mean, think about it. A typical SXSW-goer spends their nights drinking unfathomable amounts of alcohol, wandering the streets in a drunken swagger, and listening to some shitty band that you’ve never heard of play in a venue that has the acoustics of a Styrofoam cup filled with a hobo’s change. I ask you, resident of Austin, how is this any different from any other weekend?

Ya see, as far as the whole live music and drinking thing is concerned, I’d say we are a little spoiled in Austin. So SXSW is just a typical Austin weekend, except it’s extended to a week and there’s a shit ton more yankees than usual. And the other thing to think about is this: it’s probably like this all the time in places like New York (and I’m basing this assumption ENTIRELY on the movie Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. It was cute). They just get to do it in a different locale. And Austin, as big and as cool as we think we are (and we are pretty fucking awesome), does not really have the capacity to handle this type of thing and these types of crowds. I mean, supposedly EVERY FLIGHT into the city was booked solid yesterday. This is amazing.

Then, there’s actual access to the shows to consider. Now, I’ve never had an actual SXSW pass or wristband. Last year, I did borrow a wristband for a day just to see what all of the fuss was about, but I came to the same conclusion I did earlier in this piece: this is just a Saturday night, there’s just MORE of it. And it’s not like I could have gotten into one of the BIG shows with my wristband. Oh no, you need a pass and credentials for that. So if SXSW is not for locals, it certainly isn’t catered to the average fan. Like most things, it’s just a big trade show or convention where people in a similar industry get together and enjoy (or in the case of hipster douches, not enjoy) the thing they love. There is so much press coverage on the thing cause there is SO MUCH PRESS here. I mean, what else are they going to talk about? What else am I going to talk about?

Now, these are certainly not ground breaking conclusions. But I think it’s important to keep these kind of things in perspective. And for all the Salvation Army Thrift Store rejects (also the name of a band playing at The Parish, incidentally) running about, some of them are actually kinda hot. So, for the most part, I think I’ve finally made peace with SXSW.

However.

Were some of these fucking people raised in a fucking barn? I know that’s the stereotype for us goat-fucking Texans, but come on! I’m working downtown (across the street from The Paramount, the SXSW Mecca no less!), and I have to see and put up with these people all day long! It’s like they have no concept of laws and rules and society and traffic flow or smoking ordinances or any of that type of stuff! I don’t know what kind of magical land yall come from where there simply are no rules and no structure to society, but people actually LIVE in Austin. It’s not  Disneyland!

Take the worst offenders: street crossers. Apparently, in Hipster Douche Land, it is perfectly acceptable to cross the street whenever the fuck you please, regardless if traffic is barreling towards you and people have to ruin their break pads just to make sure they don’t run into you and spill your Parliaments all over the goddammed ground. I’m going to let you festival goers in on a secret: PEOPLE IN AUSTIN CANNOT DRIVE. We simply cannot master this skill. So you are probably going to get run over. Just use common fucking sense and cross where there is not a car right in front of you.

Lesson number two: ordering at a fast food restaurant. You order here the same way you do everywhere else. This is not a completely foreign country! I swear, you’d think some of these people had never seen the inside of a Wendy’s before. They’re all, “Oh…yeah…um…what’s this hamburger thing?” They don’t have a concept of a line (which they should, since they will be waiting outside so many clubs). And no concept of monetary exchange. When it comes time to pay, they’re like “Oh…yeah…ummm…I forgot about money.” And then they have to maneuver past eighty press badges hanging around their necks to get to their wallets.

Back to traffic. It is perfectly UNACCEPTABLE to stand in the middle of the street and take pictures. Yes, the capitol building is gorgeous, and the largest one in the country for you trivia buffs. Yup, even larger than our nation’s capitol. But stopping traffic so you can take a snap of it with your iPhone is A) going to get you a crappy picture, and B) is going to get you run over by yours truly. Going back to something I said in a post almost a year ago, we live in a SOCIETY with RULES. And yes, even a place as fucking deranged as the ATX has them!

And just so you know, there are other BBQ places not called “Stubb’s.” And if you think their ribs suck it does not mean ALL ribs suck. In fact, their ribs do suck. Come on, you like indie bands! Why not try another restaurant as well? This also applies to Tex Mex/Chuy’s.

And all together now: it’s I-35, not THE 35. 183, not THE 183. Streets around here have enough names as it is. Don’t confuse us anymore than we already are.

So this weekend I will officially brave the SXSW and become one with the masses, only because Explosions in the Sky is playing a free show at Auditorium Shores.  Hopefully, the hipster douches will decide Explosions are not cool anymore and avoid the show. But whatever happens, it’s going to be a gorgeous weekend. And I’m glad everyone is here to see how nice the weather in Austin can actually be before summer (and ACL) sets in.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to navigate around a mass of people in front of the Paramount just to get to my car. These are the same people I will probably be running over in a few seconds. So it goes.

Odds and Ends: Search Engine Edition

-For my blind readers who can’t see and are instead having this blog read to them (maybe by one of those cool automated computer voices), I got totally bored and decided to experiment with a layout change. Just for shits. I really liked the old one, but it bugged the heck out of me that the titles of posts were green when my scheme was trying to be bluish. WordPress would not let me change this. I like this one, apart from the frilly flowery things above the links and whatnot. Flowers don’t really say “Austin” (me or the city). But at least they aren’t fraking green.

-The Oscars!…. were a little boring this year. I only saw one of the best picture nominees, and it did not win. And while my two favroite movies from last year, Milk and The Dark Knight, did get a lot of love, I’m starting to wonder why I even care about this stupid show anymore. Every year I think, “Oh, this ceremony is gonna be off da hook!” By the time 3:30 CST rolls around (the average time the show ends), I’m mad, bleary-eyed, and reflecting on my wasted life not making movies. Such is the lot of a commie homo-loving son of a gun.

-I’ve been working on my Spanish. “Escoba” means “broom,” according to my Spanish Mac Dashboard Widget (or SMDW for short, which sounds like a sex act). Thus, what I should have said last week was “tenga escoba?” Yes? Si?

-So, running was going well for a while. I made it up to SIX MILES the other day, further than I have ever probably even WALKED in a single sitting (walking?) in my life. Maybe I pushed myself a little to hard, cause my knee hurts like a somabitch. It’s usually fine during the day, but the second I start running… disaster. I only made it 15 minutes today because of the knee, not even enough time to reach Lady GaGa on my “Rerning” playlist. Sigh. Something tells me a Knee Storm ‘09 is in my future, and a Chris Redfield is not.

-Chris Redfield.

-I’ve seen this done on other blogs, and I thought it was fun, and since I have nothing else to say right now, I’ll do this. Below is a list of some of the various terms people have used in search engines to get to this here blog. Some are quite funny. In the interest of public service, I will address a few of these queues with some helpful advice. Remember, these were all terms used to get here. Some make sense. Some prove the internet is weird.

1. Rihanna Austin review

By far my most popular search, along with Kanye. If you look around you can find it, but long story short: it was good and she was cute. And it was, like, a year ago so get over it. But we do all need to stay strong for our beloved Rihanna. This whole Chris Brown thing is kinda sick, and the only thing that comforts me is Rihanna has Jay-Z on her side. Double your pleasure, Chis Brown, double your PAIN!

2. Wearing an arm cast

Wear it on your arm. How fucking hard is that?

3. How to be a hipster elitist

Attend SXSW. Hate everyone else’s band. Yadda yadda yadda.

4. Men dicks/Big dick men

Okay, hey now! This is a G-rated blog, for fuck’s sake! I imagine these searchers where disappointed when they came here but, the internet being what it is, probably eventually found gratification somewhere else. But seriously, I don’t think I’ve mentioned a single dick on this site? Or have I? Was I posting in my sleep again?

5. Sling cast

I have a picture somewhere on here that explains this.

6. I’m melting!

I’m so sorry to hear that. Try jumping into water or, you know, not standing by the microwave with the door open.

7. Review chesney concert

I didn’t even go to this one. I imagine he wore a hat and sang.

8. I want to wear skinny jeans

You poor, poor thing.

9. My blue arm cast

Mine was probably prettier than yours AND probably had more signatures AND probably smelled worse. Advantage: me.

10. ^fullfuck

Seriously, huh? “You know, I’m really tired of those semifucks,” search engine guy says one day. “I need to find me one of those real, bona-fied fullfucks! Hmmm, Just Like the City? Maybe there’s a fullfuck in here!”

Two hours later… “Why did I need to read that much about a wedding? And E.T. shopping at American Apparel? WHERE THE HELL IS MY FULLFUCK!”

And scene.

11. family reunions

Fun fun fun! I hope this person wasn’t scared off from family reunions forever, though…

12. gymnastics 2008 pictures pictures/cut olympic gymnasts

I got a lot of these and their variations, and they are something I think I actually helped with! You are welcome! With that new search bar in the corner, see if you can find the picture again!

13. rain cloud wii mario cart

You misspelled “cart,” you wii-tard. No wonder it’s always raining around you.

14. men and big dicks/big men with big dicks

Honestly, this has gotten out of hand. Or has it gotten… in hand? Mwa ha ha!

15. hipster douche

Hipster douche! Go ahead… go outside and scream it! I promise you will feel better. I think that was the answer you were looking for.

16. shirts to wear with skinny jeans

None.

17. how to wear skinny jeans

Don’t.

18. orson scott card

Now let’s talk about a douche. I didn’t literally throw his books away, but I did pack them up and turn them into Half Price for 12 big ones. It was quite emotional. There were like twenty of them, ask Morgan. With the twelve bucks, I purchased The New Joy of Gay Sex. Okay, not really, I bought a Michael Crichton (RIP) book. But wouldn’t that have been funny? I kind of thought it was wrong, potentially placing these books in other people’s hands. But I am no censor, people can read and say what they want. And 12 bucks!

19. nerd; all the ladies stranded in the lin

The ladies standing in the “lin” for the nerd show did not get in. Sorry to break it to you.

-And just as I go to post this, I see another search: “pictures of men with big dicks.” I suppose I’ve found this site’s calling…

-And in honor of my blog’s new “dark blue” look…

Gringo Loco, or Where Three Years of Spanish Got Me

This was an especially shitty week, and it could have had a shitty end except that a really funny story came out of it. 

Allow me to set the scene. It’s six ‘o clock Friday evening and I am leaving work. I have to run to the building next door to drop of two FedEx packages and one Lone Star package (a small regional delivery service). This is my job cause everyone I work with is too fucking lazy and too fucking fat to waddle their fat fucking asses over there when it takes no fucking effort at all (I said it was a bad week). But I don’t particularly care, it’s not like it’s a hard thing to do. 

So I enter the building next door and go to the mail room on the second floor. I’m tired and trying to think of all the adventures I am going to go onto that night. I have the FedEx things in one hand and the Lone Star in the other. And what do I do? Not paying any attention, I place the FedEx packages in the Lone Star box. 

Well, shit. The packages fall in slow motion, I yell out “NOOOOOOOO!” in slow motion, and the FedEx envelopes crash to the bottom of the Lone Star bin, far, far from arms length. I stick my hand in there to fish them out. They might as well be a mile away. There is no was I am getting to them. Have you ever had to fish something out of a standup mail box before? It’s kinda sorta impossible. 

I take heavy breaths and try to regain my composure. These packages HAVE to be in California by nine the next morning (this morning as I type this), or one of our pain-in-the-ass clients isn’t going to have their stupid little spot run at EXACTLY the right time. So I can’t just say, “Oh, well, cest la vie!” I have to get the packages out. 

I’m not MacGyver. I’m not even MacGruber. I can’t look around the room and try to put something together that will make this whole operation a piece of cake. The only way I can usually take care of things is with some sort of force. Like, if something is wrong with my computer. I don’t try to calmly restart it or force quit things. I just slap it a few times. If that doesn’t work, I kick it. 

I decide the best option is to turn this thing over to where the packages will fall out. No problem, right? Except that it’s really, really heavy. And it’s jammed up against a corner, scraping the edges of a UPS drop box and the wall. But I don’t think about these things. So I’m trying to tip this thing over and it’s not going well. It keeps getting stuck on the wall and threatening to topple over on top of me. Which technically is what I want it to do, but I don’t want to get stuck or anything. Imagine if I got pinned under a Lone Star mailbox? And no one came in cause it was the weekend? And I starved to death or my pinned leg got gangrene or rats came out of the walls and nibbled my face away? No, I couldn’t take those chances. I shoved the mail box back to the wall. 

Dammit, think, Austin, think! Rational plan one is to go to a bar, get a drink, and come back at eight when the pick up occurs and explain the situation. But I kinda want to go home and nap. Rational plan two is to leave a note. But then I figure the note might get lost, and the Lone Star guy and the FedEx guy probably hate each other and would not go out of their way to make sure a rival company gets a package. 

I go over to the supply table on the wall and get a huge roll of Priority Mail tape. This is my big plan. I’m going to fish the tape down in there, attach it to a package, and reel it up. ‘Cause that’s fucking gonna’ fucking work. But I’m desperate. I unspool a line of tape and drop it into the abyss of the mail slot. And of course it attaches to everything BUT the package. It goes to other letters. It gets stuck on the wall. And the tape can’t get a good enough grip of the packages in the first place for me to hoist it up. So I’m screwed. This was my last big plan. 

Unless…

Unless I can find a broom to stick in there, or a vacuum cleaner pole or something. 

And wouldn’t you know it? At that point, a cleaning lady came in, only to find me with my head and hands stuck down the mail chute screaming, “Why, God, why?!?” 

I jerk to attention and smile at her. I don’t want her to think that I’m stealing mail, cause I’m sure she cares. “Hi!” I say. Maybe a little to friendly. She smiles back. 

I point at the mail box. “I got a package stuck in here and I was wondering if you have a broom or a large pole or anything I can use to fish it out?” 

She’s just staring at me like I’m speaking jibberish and I’m like, oh shit. I’m really going to have to do this, am I? I’m really going to have to try… Spanish?!?

I gather my composure. She hasn’t responded to anything, Maybe she’s just deaf? Very shyly, and with seemingly mounds more hick accent then I normally use, I ask her, “Habla Ingles?” God, I hope that was the right conjugation. 

I get a reaction. She shakes her head and says, “No, no.” 

So I say, “Um… I… uh… quiero… no, that’s not right… tenga…. tenga… how the fuck do I say broom… tenga big stick?” I shit you not. This is what I say. Cause it doesn’t matter if it’s a broom. I just need a big stick! And I make a motion with my arms, like when you are describing how big the fish you just caught was. This could not get anymore white. 

Another cleaning guy shows up. I ask him, “Habla Ingles?” He nods, “Si.” Well, if you speak English, why did you say “si”?!? I don’t tell him this and instead try to explain my predicament to him. More cleaning crew is coming into the room. And this other guy just looks at me. Something tells me that his English is probably about as good as my Spanish, and that this isn’t going to work. 

So I’ve exhausted my Spanish repertoire. How, HOW do I know so little Spanish? I mean, I know more and I guess I was just on the spot, but I literally COULD NOT FUNCTION. And I had even made a Spanish joke earlier in the day (a coworker told me that her kid was doing bad in Spanish class, and I was like “Don’t you mean muy malo?” Ha ha, fucking brilliant, Austin). And I order Mexican food all the time! And I have friends that are fluent in it! And I live in Texas! How, how am I this bad? Why did I think taking Japanese was a good idea? It’s not like there’s going to be a Japanese cleaning crew that I can converse with some day. That language is fucking USELESS! 

In that moment, I regret every decision I’ve ever made. 

But there’s hope! I see a duster on the side of one of their trash cans, one that’s kinda long. And I point at it. And I say, “Can I borrow this… uno momento?” Blank stares again. So I just grab it and say “Uno momento” and hold up one finger cause, you know, don’t want to confuse anyone. 

Okay, now they’re on board. They smile and nod and agree and I take this FUCKING DUSTER back to the mail box and start fishing the packages out again. It’s not quite long enough, but I managed to hit the packages up against the wall of the mail box and then slide them up and, just like that, they are in my hands again. 

I turn back to the cleaning crew. There’s like four of them now and they are just staring at me. I place the duster back in its holster and say, “Um.. muchos, muchos gracias!” I put all the packages in their respective bins. I high tail it out of there. I hear a little bit of laughter. I’m listening for the words “gringo loco,” but I don’t hear it. I sheepishly walk to my parking garage. I need that nap. 

Moral of the story: learn Spanish, not Japanese. And don’t be stupid.

A Sunset for the Sunfire

I’ve had two cars in my lifetime. When I was gifted my license at the tender age of 16, I was gifted too with the family’s green Jeep Cherokee. In retrospect this was a hell of a car and I would love to have it now but I hated it at the time. The radio didn’t work. All I could get was the AM band, thus deepening my appreciation for classic country and talk radio. Most of the gages failed to work either. The speedometer needle started getting shaky after 50 mph, so I usually had to guess how fast I was going. And the fuel gage always registered half a tank so I had to use the Force to sense when I thought gas was running low. And yet is still passed inspection. All this on top of the fact that we had this car when we were kids and already trashed it.

Eventually, I managed to spill gasoline all over the back seat while mowing lawns one summer and I couldn’t get the smell out. This was “Straw That Broke the Camel’s Back” One. Then, the driver’s side door started to come unhinged. It wouldn’t shut all the way, and the “door ajar” buzzer never shut off unless I placed the latch in just the right spot. One day, the buzzing got so incessant that, as I was pulling into the Gatesville United Methodist Church parking lot (on my way to some fantastic adventure in Jesusland, I’m sure), I shoved my hand towards the door and attempted to slam it as best I could. Well, the door came off in my arm. And then I dropped it. And then I ran over it. All as friends watched.

My parents decided it was time that I have a new car. Now, they didn’t get rid of the Jeep. They actually kept it and gave it to my brother, who proceeded to trash it like the victim of domestic abuse. I have no idea where the car is now. I assume it’s at the bottom of Lake Belton (the Lake Travis of the Waco-Temple-Killeen area).

But onto the new car. One summer day, as I returned from band camp in the school van, there, sitting in my driveway, was a brand new 2001 white Pontiac Sunfire. Now, I know it’s not the best car in the world. And why my parents got me white instead of, you know, BLUE like everything else I own, I don’t know. I wasn’t about to go all My Super Sweet 16 on them. Truth be told, I could not have been happier. After the Jeep, this was like a Roles Royce. As it was my high school graduation present, I thanked them profusely.

So began a seven-year, love-hate life together. And, to be honest, it was mostly love. The thing got hella-great gas milage. And while it had a few problems, it never flat out broke down on me (but more on that in a sec). The car and I have been through a lot together. High school. 9/11. College. Ice Storm ‘07. Arm Storm ‘08. Actual Storm ‘08 (still has dents on the roof). Smell Storm ‘08. And all sorts of adventures up and down I-35 (seriously, I like never travel further than 40 miles from the interstate, and have never lived more than 40 miles from it. What’s wrong?).

Last week, my completely smart sister Jill got into a car accident. I’ll spare you, and her, the details, but she’s okay. However, she managed to total her Pontiac Vibe going 30 mph on Bridge Street in Gatesville (Bridge Street is to Gatesville as Lamar is to Austin; the road connects you to just about everything but isn’t THE road. Actually, it’s probably more like Burnet. This aside has gone on for too long). My parents decide that they are getting a new car, they want to give me my dad’s old car, and that Jill will get the Sunfire. By the way, my parents purchased a Buick Lucerne, the same car my grandparents drive. They are now officially “olds.” When I confronted my mom about “one foot being in the grave,” she told me, “I don’t care! It’s comfortable!”

And just like that, suddenly, I no longer drive the car that I have driven for almost eight years and 75,000 miles (remember my driving radius). I am now the proud owner (?) of a Pontiac G6 (are you seeing the theme for my family?). Like the Jeep before it, I kinda don’t know what speed I’m going. With the Sunfire, I had to practically floor it so it would get to 60. Plus, it started shaking uncontrollably when it got to 70 and screamed like a cheap whore somewhere around 80. Point is, I had a pretty good idea what my speed was. With the G6 (the 6 stands for 6-cylinder), I can’t tell if I’m going 30 or 90. 90 was what I was going as I drove back to Austin this weekend. I had no idea. The car wasn’t shaking. It wasn’t talking back to me. And it doesn’t smell like rotten egg salad (which, sorry to say Ashley, is not a pheromone).

It was a little bittersweet cleaning out the Sunfire on Saturday. I mean, I was kinda happy to be rid of it. But I came across all sorts of things in the glove compartment, which apparently I had NEVER bothered to clean. I found old parking tickets from UT (ahhh, the Jester “loading” zone).  Numerous “C” parking permits. I found mix CDs that I had made all the way back in high school. There was my first (and only) speeding ticket, followed by about 40 warnings of various sorts. No gloves (I think there’s a Death Cab lyric that applies to this maybe kinda sorta?). I won’t say I got emotional, since the drugs that turned me into a woman have long since gone and I am back to being my crabby, cynical self. But I did pause to think.

Overall, I’d say a pretty good trade? And how did Jill fare? Well, she wasn’t initially excited about getting the car (did I mention the smell?), but she warmed up to it. I think she was just excited to get something to drive after being wheel-less for an entire week. When she returned to San Marcos, a hose burst and the engine overheated. She had to take it into the shop where it will cost her (and by her I mean my parents) $500. I got rid of that thing just in time! Oh, that Sunfire! Always acting the fool!

And now that I have a brand new shiny car, maybe I can get around to getting some of that ass everyone’s been talking about.

And a lot (like, 5) people searched for Chris Redfield. So here’s a Photoshopped picture of Chris Redfield and a Sunfire I did on my lunch break. Chris Redfield.

That’s not my car. And I do not yet look like that…

On Running: Seriously, Why Do This to Yourself?

New year, new resolutions to break. I told myself I wasn’t going to make any, cause they are cliched and get broken way too easily, or if I did, I would wait until the Chinese New Year or something. You know, just to make it interesting. Now that I have the XBox 360, my natural instinct is to stay home, play games all day and, you know, shun society and the sun and all that stuff. So screw resolutions, unless that resolution is to play more games.

But I went to the doctor today, saw what I had done to myself over the holidays, and immediately made plans to start running again. I mean, seriously. He told me that the weight gain was a good thing, that it meant that some problems I was having earlier were nothing serious and that I was still at a good, healthy level. And that it was all holiday weight and would probably go away on its won. But what the hell does he know? That quack! He told me I should just walk, that running might be going overboard, but he obviously never went to med school! Doesn’t he know I’m 25 now and that every calorie I eat goes straight to my mancakes (what the hell is this term, btw)? I was actually impressed when I came in under-weight, cause I got to eat whatever I wanted (and before anyone says I’m anorexic, two questions: have you seen me and have you seen me eat?). He also told me that I wore the weight well. This flattered me, considering we had got to third base or something the last time I visited him.

Anyway.

And in case anyone was wondering/cares, I don’t have cancer. Or the herp. Or rosacea. I’m apparently just a hypochondriac.

So, it’s back to running. Some people hate it, but I actually kinda like it. It saves me wasting money on a gym membership I probably won’t use, and I get to explore! Now, I’m not exactly one of those people who can rip off like eight miles in the morning. Those people are douches. I take my time, slow down when I want to, walk around a bit, pet dogs, pick flowers, and the like. And when I feel like it, I start running again, even if it’s only for a couple of blocks.

And I get a lot of good thinking in when I run. It’s kinda like when you go to bed and you have all these great ideas for what you are going to do the next day or for the rest of your life. In those few moments before sleep, you have it all figured out. You’ve solved the Middle East crisis, the meaning of life, the existence of a higher being, figured out how to get a new job (insert oxford comma) and plotted out that novel. When you wake up in the morning, it’s like you’re a child again. You just want to sleep. You’re thinking, “Like hell I’m gonna do that thing! And fuck the Middle East! And that book is going to be stupid! I don’t want to bathe today… just sleep.”

Well, when you run, you have all those before-sleep thoughts but, instead of falling asleep right after, you have the day/evening ahead of you. So those great plans you have, you can actually do something about them. Running today, I resolved to blog. And now look at me!

Now, I’m also a bit hesitant to start running. First off, I can’t just come home and pass out like I usually do. Second, it’s still cold and dark when I get home. The dark I don’t mind so much, but the cold? Fuck that. And lastly, the last few times I went through a running kick, I stopped not cause I “fell off the wagon,” but because tragedy struck. A few years ago a family member died and I couldn’t bring myself to run. And last time, I “fell off the roof” as opposed to the wagon and didn’t want to run in my cast. And when the cast was off, I was just lazy.

Despite the fact that I’m kinda sick, that weight measurement just did not sit well with me, and I came home and ran. And I did a pretty good job for being off the roof for so long. I almost made it to the hospital! And that’s “hospital” as in a physical location, not cause I had a heart attack. And if I did have a heart attack, I would not go to THAT hospital. St. David’s. Just let me die instead! I managed to run/walk for over an hour, even without my iPod (you see, the earbuds would not stay in my ears, that’s how fat I am).

And do you notice that hot people run? And fat-asses that are supposedly getting into shape but will quit in about a week when they open the freezer and see that ice cream and then proceed to eat the whole thing while crying and listening to “Fix You.” But hot people too! Trust me, you say you can’t run or don’t like to run? Get behind a nice ass. Yeah.

Anyway.

If there’s anything I would like this blog to do, it would be to encourage you, the reader, to become a better person. So I invite you to run. Just try it out. You don’t have to go all out, I certainly don’t. You get to explore your neighborhood, feel good about yourself, and look at hot people (extra bonus if you live next to UT as I do). And if you don’t like it, there’s always that Blue Bell in the fridge.

And my Chinese New Year’s resolution is not just to run, but to get fit as well. This might take me some time. I’m gonna run first, deal with the weight thing, and then see what I can do about sculpting my body into a timeless work of art. I might have some trouble with the weights, seeing as how I can’t even lift a can of Diet Coke with my left hand without screaming “Mein Leiben!”, but we’ll see. At least I made the resolution, what did you do? And in twelve months, when I look AMAZING, you can say you knew me when. Or in twelve months, when I’ve grown two pant sizes, broken my other arm, and gotten cast in the John Goodman biopic (as John Goodman. Or maybe Rosanne Barr), you can pity me and my optimism. My goal is to look like Chris Redfield from the upcoming Resident Evil 5:

Who says I have unrealistic expectations? I want trees for arms! And how would you like to run behind that?

Anyway.

I’ll probably stop running when Resident Evil 5 comes out.

A Christmas Memory(ies)

(Historical Note: The following story is mostly true. I can’t say it’s all true cause it happened when I was a kid and things tend to blur. I tried to sort everything out in my memory the best I could).

There was a rumor making its rounds across the playground of Old Town Elementary in Round Rock, Texas. Kids paused from making friendship bracelets, or arguing the benefits of Nintendo versus Sega, to talk about it. Teachers were consulted, and the questions were met only with nervous smiles.

Apparently, Santa Claus was not real.

Someone heard it from someone who heard it from someone else that someone had sneaked into their living room last Christmas only to find their parents drinking “grown up Kool Aid” and putting together a bike. Upon discovery, the parents spilled everything (spilled the truth, that is, not the Kool Aid). The coven of parents around the world had conspired to lie to their children about where their toys came from and why they should act good all year.

Several of us would not believe this. We had proof! I told them that just last Christmas, I had heard the sleigh on the roof. And another kid told me that she snuck downstairs and found him! Santa Claus! Only he wasn’t like the ones in the mall. According to her, he was a big ball of light, some sort of hovering current of electricity. Thinking back on it, this is a kid we would probably term “short-bus special” now, but we didn’t know of such a thing then.

But the rumors bothered me, so I decided to do some detective work that year. I had to know if Santa was real. I couldn’t simply just stay up and catch my parents. There was no way I was going to be awake after ten! And I couldn’t just ask them. They lied about where Jared came from (this was knowledge I also had to gather on the playground). Why would they stop lying now?

So here’s the plan. Santa had never left me a letter with his milk and cookies because, honestly, I could give two shits. Half the glass of milk was always gone and a bite taken out of one of the cookies. This satisfied me. I didn’t need a letter confirming that he enjoyed the cookies (and if he liked them so much, why did he only eat half? Was he watching his figure?). I had TOYS to play with, not reading to do. But I told my dad, and SPECIFICALLY my dad, that gee, it would be great if Santa could leave me a letter this year. I mean, he left all the other kids a letter. Were mom’s cookies just that bad?

So Dad says, “Well, maybe this year he will,” and he glanced over at mom. Boy, these two were NOT playing it cool. It’s like they didn’t know that I was in the talented class (sort of) and couldn’t see what they were doing.

Both of my parents have very distinctive handwriting. Out of a million samples, I could probably pick both of theirs out. My mom writes in perfect cursive and almost always uses a pencil. Even grading tests (she’s a teacher), she uses a pencil. My dad writes with his left hand and uses all capitals. He often uses a marker of some type, usually green. Armed with this knowledge, I figured that my parents would not even attempt to camouflage their handwriting if they were the ones leaving the letter.

I slept easily that Christmas Eve. I slept easily every Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, another piece of life’s puzzle would reveal itself to me.

Christmas morning. I don’t even remember what I got that year. I went straight for the cookies.

And what sort of letter did this dipshit Santa leave me? First off, the handwriting was in all capitals and written with a green marker. This was proof enough. But more damning, the letter was written on lined yellow pad paper. The kind my dad, as a high school principal, used at meetings. And I remember the letter saying something like, “Austin, thank you for the cookies.” Faulkner my dad was not. And why would he thank just me and not my brother Jared?

In an instant, it all became clear to me. All the evidence over the years began to replay in my mind, like at the end of The Usual Suspects (this was several years before that movie was made and, thus, an anachronism). Like when I ordered a Nintendo from Santa. I knew vaguely that Nintendos were made in Japan and that Santa was defiantly NOT Asian. And his workshop seemed more suited to making wooden horses than electronics. Or the time that I wanted a red bike and got a blue one instead. I mean, a blue bike? WTF, Santa? You don’t short change me! I’m an American kid!

I didn’t confront my parents about it then. I really don’t know why. I think I actually wanted to continue believing in Santa because if Santa wasn’t real, who else wasn’t? The Easter Bunny? The Tooth Fairy (there’s another funny story there)? George Washington? JESUS?!?

So I waited until the next year. And I stayed up. And I caught them putting presents under the tree. And they were like, “Oh well. Here, help us put these toys together.” And that’s when my belief in Santa Claus officially ended and I became an atheist.

And with Jared and Jill, it’s like they didn’t even TRY to continue the illusion. It was too much work for them. It was easier to just start handing me toys and telling me to put them together. And before you think that my parents ran a child labor ring, please know that I enjoyed putting together the toys, which is probably why I enjoyed Legos so much and enjoy Ikea furniture today. I remember really enjoying building one of Jill’s doll houses and I probably played with it more than her. And before you say “AHA! There was proof all along!”, know that I wasn’t specifically playing dress up with any of these dolls nor would I ever. I instead staged elaborate soap operas that I would force my siblings to watch. And they were quite raunchy. I don’t remember the details, but Barbie, Aladdin, and Michelangelo were all living in the house together and things often got heated. But, once again, that is yet ANOTHER story.

I bring this Santa Claus story up because I was thinking. If I ever have kids, will I perpetuate the Santa Claus myth? I mean, it really seems ridiculous to tell kids this. What’s the point? And it doesn’t even make a lick of sense and every single child knows this! And it’s creepy on so many levels. We warn our kids never to talk to strangers yet we allow a fat bearded stranger to enter our houses via chimney and leave us gifts and candy. If Santa doesn’t fit the type, I don’t know what does.

But I think I will tell my kids about Santa, and here’s why. If you are lucky enough, and I have been so very lucky, then childhood is a magical time. And Santa is a part of that magic. And when kids figure out that Santa isn’t real, it’s not like it destroys their lives. The worst they can do is blog about it someday.

The main proponent for Santa, however, is that it reminds us how much our parents love us. For as stupid as they can be, for as uncool as they can act, for all the things that they can do wrong, they go out of their way to tell us this lie just to make us happy. And “lie” probably isn’t the right word. It’s more of a story that let’s us believe that the world is magic for just a little longer. A more cynical person than I (yes, they exist) would say you should never lie to your children, and you should be upfront about the realities of life.

But then I think of my dad, on a Christmas Eve several years ago on Fennimore Cove in Round Rock, Texas. And he needs to leave his son a letter from Santa but he can’t find appropriate stationary anywhere. So he scrawls a note on the only thing he can find: a piece of yellow-lined paper. It’s not the best thing in the world, but it will have to do. And then he drinks a half-glass of milk and takes only a few bites from a cookie and leaves the note beside them. And he does all this ridiculous stuff so that, for another day at least, his son could be happy.

I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas.

The Return!

Let’s jump right back into this. The last two months in brief:

-The Blog: It’s been so long since I’ve been here they changed the layout of the edit page. Who knows if this will even get posted! I have no idea what I’m doing!

-The Hand: IT HURTS WHEN IT’S COLD! I’m that person now.

-The Car: Yup, still smells…

-Trip to California: LA is a dump, the state is on fire, Hollywood is just an amusement park, and hockey is an overall boring sport. On the whole, I’d say I really enjoyed myself! (no, seriously, I kinda did).

-Birthday: If you get that drunk, does it really matter whether you are 25 or 18? Yes. Yes it does.

-Xbox 360: My glorious return to video games. Damn, I missed it!

-The Ting Tings: Probably one of the best concerts ever.

-Weezer: Probably one of the oldest concerts ever. Really, Rivers? Track suits? And three encores just to get to “Buddy Holly”? Still, it rocked like it was 1994, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

-Jack’s Mannequin: Wait, I didn’t get to see this concert. Sad emoticon.

-Halloween: I think I pulled off the costume swimmingly and I don’t care what other people say, my legs are hot… ish.

-Work: Kill me now.

-Obama: Fuckin’ amazing! An historical day for America: we elected a president that smokes! Si se puede!

-Proposition 8 et al: Now I REALLY don’t want to read Ender’s Game again. Seriously, fuck married people (except the ones I know).

-Mark Wahlberg Talks to Animals: I wasn’t all that impressed with this the first time I saw it, but I appreciated the theory behind it. And then I saw The Happening. And suddenly, “Mark Wahlberg Talks to Animals” became the funniest skit ever.

-Heroes: Has replaced Lost as my abusive TV relationship. But whereas Lost was just abusive for a while (until the sex got REALLY great), Heroes seems to have developed a meth addiction as well. But I love him!

-Friday Night Lights: Season 3 Episode Cry Count (S3ECC): 7 of 8 (I’m sure I skipped one in there). I also realized that I have talked NON STOP about this show for almost two years and NO ONE seems compelled to watch it. Glad to know my opinion matters. But you know what? It’s all mine.

-30 Rock: Approaching Arrested Development territory. That’s all I’m saying. “I want to go to there.”

-New Music:
The Killers: Yes!
Kanye: It’s growing on me.
Coldplay: I want to go to there.
Beyonce: I think I like Sasha Fierce more. So much so that I’ll put a ring on it. OH!

-Thanksgiving: Delicious! And very odd this year.

-Jim Gaffigan: First stand up show I’ve ever been to and I’m still laughing about it. I might be on TV (I certainly hammed up the laughter when the cameras were close). Hot Pocket!

-College Football: It’s horseshit, all of it. Well except the Longhorns and that quarterback of theirs. The rest? Horseshit.

-Finally telling people: The best thing I’ve ever done! I assure you, Nene, I would NEVER dance too close to a girl. My plan is to expand on this one in a future post (and we all know how my plans go).

It’s been a fun-filled few weeks. There, I updated.