The Sleeping Critic: There Will Be Blood

What? Hmphh...

Ugh, so sleepy. Sorry, I, I must've succumbed to a certain intermittent sleepishness throughout the entire film.

This movie...ehg-hack! ehem! -- oh, geez. So long. Let me reflect upon my viewing experience:

The film did not cease with its flashing and dragging and discord between two emaciated gentlemen. A soporific melodrama, indeed! The film was not gentle with me, recumbent in my power-siesta, drifting away.

The film...yes, yes, I remember now: so much quarreling, so much yelling in California.

Dust and bitterness. Also, everyone's covered in oil. Who's H.W.? What is the big deal with H.W., and why is he being mentioned, constantly? There are too many syllables in his initials to call him by his initials. It's distracting. Why -- I -- ughhh -- so much squabbling, scrambling, and gloom. Leather straps, possibly buckles, possibly boots.

Legs bending, wills breaking.

The soundtrack: unflagging, hostile, tense. So many violins invading my restless slumber. Just an ominous cloud of stringed instruments casting a pall over my dreamscape -- h-help, I can't, I can't handle the plucking. Please stop plucking. Too much cello tension bouncing to and fro within my brainpan.

Yaghh. My neurons. My dendrites. Quit it. Stop strumming my dendrites. My dendrites are trying to rest. Please conclude thy torture.

Scaffolding and picnic tables. That oil derrick is made of untreated lumber. Lots of 2x4's.

A man, a worker, gets crushed by something huge and unstoppable and dies in thick mud -- I sleep the sleep of ages.

H-wah? Oh...ehem. Who's that actor? The guy who plays the pastor? Why is he everywhere? He is an unrelenting screech-owl and I want him gone. Begone, preachy screech-owl. Too much power. Too much power over Little Boston.

Too much oil covering everybody, for what feels like eons. Endless eons of scenes of Daniel Day-Lewis caked with oil and clutching a boy on the floor.

Clamor, and riches -- Oh, good god, I have sweat filthily into the couch. I...I sleep now.

Pblrsrbrst. What? Daniel Day-Lewis is drunk in a bowling alley that belongs exclusively to him, it would appear. Slick wood and depressed isolation. The mewling strings, the color correction, the movie's sheer length: ruffle me. When shall I sleep? Tell me, Couch-God. Hm? Sleepy now? Sleepy no?

Wait, I think something just happened, like, a tea set fell down, and, maybe someone got murdered in the bowling alley, while I was snoozing for a second. I think someone has been seriously hurt or killed.

Okay, now I just woke up at the end of the credits. I am not sure when the movie came to a close. Did something happen after the bowling alley thing happened? I am unsettled. I am a man perturbed, disturbed, and unstrung.

2 out of 5 stars

Which Neighborhood Should I Do Which Exercise In?

It's the biggest question on all New Yorkers' minds: Which neighborhood should I do which exercise inside of? It's perfectly fine to work out in New York City, but you can't be seen working out in the wrong neighborhood in relation to the exercise you're performing. How do I know this? One time I did Bulgarian split squats in Stuyvesant Town and was mocked, openly, by a group of old men who were sweaty from paddle tennis. It shattered me in twain.

In an effort to help you avoid a similar fate, I have composed a list of what exercises you should do inside of what particular neighborhood in New York City.

1. The Push-up

The push-up is extremely popular. 

The push-up is so basic and awesome of an exercise that you'll want to perform it not in the wrong neighborhood. So listen very closely: Do not perform this exercise anywhere but in Far Rockaway.

Far Rockaway is where all of your push-ups will be performed from now on. 

Just imagine yourself performing push-ups in Far Rockaway, on that boardwalk, like an athlete. Nice work! Now, imagine how much it will frighten you when, upon performing this exercise anywhere else from now on, I pull up in a van and disappear you with my team of mercenaries. Do we understand each other quite clearly?

2. The Chin-up

This is the chin-up that you do every Wednesday, religiously, starting this Wednesday.

You should be proud of all the chin-ups you'll be doing -- but I regret to inform you that you can only do them in Co-op City from now on.

Co-op City is known for its green spaces, and for your never-ending chin-up program. 

Don't worry, Co-op City is just a two-hour jaunt from midtown: perfect for your chin-ups, which will be done there exclusively, from now on. In fact, it would be considered an insult for you to perform any type of pull-up -- or other back exercise, for that matter -- anywhere else from here forward. You are under heavy surveillance.

3. The Deadlift

An easy, casual exercise to perform daily.

Remember when you used to do this exercise in college, before you injured your lower back? Nice. Now you'll be expected to perform it every day in the middle of a landing strip in LaGuardia Airport.

Shiny planes are just hundreds of the things that will be coming at you during your deadlift session.  

Studies have shown that the vast, scorching asphalt of this famed Queens aerodrome is ideal for your high-intensity workout. Please be sure to complete your reps before getting sucked into a jet engine.

4. The Squat

The squat: no reason not to do it in perpetuity.

Have fun waking up tomorrow morning at 4:00 AM so you can make your squat appointment in the only place you will ever do squats from here on out: Prince's Bay, Staten Island.

Prince's Bay has a big green field for your endless squats.

Pay no attention to Jason Mutz and Rob Hexley, the two real estate developers who will be watching your every squat while yelling at you to hurry up and finish, so they can build condos. Just kidding. Pay attention to them, and show them the utmost respect. I don't need to explain why. Just know that I have an Astro Van filled with hired gunmen tracking you at all times, and that Jason Mutz and Rob Hexley are somehow involved with the operation.

5. Wrestle A Bear 

A bear, working itself into a lather before shredding you to ribbons. 

Bear wrestling happens almost exclusively in the movies (e.g., The Revenant), but you will be wrestling a bear in real life, no matter what, because that is what the spectators are paying to see in six months, when you compete in my underground blood sport. For your information, the only appropriate place for you to wrestle a bear in New York City is in Central Park, like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Hercules in New York, a movie that Arnold is probably very embarrassed by.

This is a fake bear. Yours will be very real. 

I hope you now understand how important it is to do certain exercises in certain neighborhoods. Make sure to respect the parameters of this workout regimen, so you will be in optimal physical condition for your wrestling bout with an entire, actual bear in six months. If you have any questions, please search "What just happened to my life?" or "Weightlifting Accident" in your web browser.

This is my favorite scene from Commando.

12 Absolutes You'll Never Need, Every Time

Some idiot who always wears Patagonia. 

Just like everyone, everywhere, you're always absolutely gonna be guaranteed, every time. But never, also. But, whaaaaat?! Um…yeah! That's why you're never gonna need it: because you always have it — and if you don't always have it, you're gonna want it. You know it. Don't act like you don't. But do it absolutely, forever. That's because always. Here're definitely 12 reasons why:

1. You're Always Reading This

It sucks that you started reading this, because now you're always reading it, in perpetuity. It's almost like it's impossible for you to read something else; except you will read something else, every time. Classic you. Go classic yourself. 

2. Just Like Everyone, You Always Are

You're never not, and that is precisely why you always are. Don't die, or else you'll prove that you were, but aren't anymore, and we won't abide that kind of hypocrisy, ever. 

3. You Always Aren't, Also

So, in that way, you're an individual, who is like no one. No one that is, and no one that ever has been, is like you now, and will be like you forever, unless you are an average person, in which case, like most people, you’re like everyone else. You always read that while you read that, which means everything.  

4. Absolutely

Are you definitely going to the party at Johnny's? Absolutely. And no one can tell you otherwise, as long as you both shall live. Go to Johnny's party, and then get married to Johnny, because marriage is forever.

5. Forever

What is forever? you might totally ask me, every time. I don't know. To define forever would be to give it boundaries, and I don't respect boundaries. I don't respect personal boundaries, as you know, because I’m up in your grill, 24-7 — or I’m not up in your grill at all, depending on if you love me or you hate me, and it’s gotta be one or the other, because that’s my realness and truth — but, more importantly, I don’t respect physical boundaries and enclosures, which is why I love Escape from Alcatraz.

6. Absolute Vodka

This blog post is sponsored by Absolute Vodka. If you're in the mood for delicious vodka, drink only Absolute, all night, because it is the absolute worst vodka you could ever drink at your mom's Christmas party. Christmas is a time for God and mulled wine and other things that live longer in people's hearts than you will. 

7. Knee Surgery

Knee surgery is forever. If it goes right, you'll enjoy it for a while and then forget about it, unless it's raining. But if it goes wrong, then we're talkin' medical malpractice, the court system, and one of your knees bein' all weird and useless. Never get knee surgery, even though surgery is always important.

8. Always, Always, Never 

When will you never always learn that now and forever? For instance, you missed everything on Saturday night, while you sat at home doing something. Buy a clue. See you in hell, pal. Saw you the whole time, Sawzall and all, disposing of the corpse. What’s always wrong? Cold-blooded murder, is what. Yeah, it's called surveillance, and it's the latest technology, and you’re going to prison.

9. The Horizon

Always just sitting there, it's the horizon. Very horizontal and radiant.

10. Fire

Fire has always existed, even before we invented it. What did you invent in high school Invention Class? I invented a Rube Goldberg that includes a balloon that inflates near-infinitely, then pops itself on an infinitely sharp needle, scaring a feathered creature into laying an egg, which then rolls down a ramp and cracks onto a frying pan, over an open flame, teaching you about drugs. Learn about drugs, then do drugs and see what happens, you druggy.  

11. Movies

Movies have been around forever. The first movie ever made was live, real-time footage of King James translating the Bible in his swanky home-office. Obviously, everybody has been watching that movie over and over, all the time. 

12. Shakespeare

Absolutely timeless, forevermore. It’s cool how all of his writings are relatable, even to everybody. For instance, take Sonnet #129.33:

Forsooth I fry the glob upon the hob,

I clearly see the rabbit I must stab it.

I park the truck, its wheels do need a chock,

I’m writing this on a computer right now.

Top 10 Shapes

"What is a shape?" You might ask, rudely. Well, let's look at the dictionary. According to modern lexicographers in colleges in some town over there in a ditch, shape is Greek for the German word shapzkrieg, meaning triangles. With that in mind, we can understand why shapes are such an integral part of geometry, aka 8th grade math, aka school sucks, aka you got diarrhea on pizza day.

Anyhow, the shapes listed below are the ones you need to keep in mind when you're doing all sorts of crap. (Don't shapes make you want to soar through the shapeless clouds, or navigate the amorphous seas? Don't they inspire you to float in one way or another? Don't they make you feel as light as a feather?!) Whatever it is that shapes do to you--I, for one, find that squares drive me absolutely crazy--you gotta know them inside and out. Check out this list of shapes you haven't thought about since pre-school:

1. Square
Please recall that I mentioned squares, before. The square is a shape on paper. The town square is where the mayor will make an example of you if you are caught shoplifting chewing gum in 1762. If you're just gonna steal shit, then the answer, quite simply, is public humiliation.

2. Circle
Life is a circle. You're born, you get a yinyang tattoo that everyone secretly hates, and then you die in a pile of leaves.

3. Triangle
I believe we are all familiar with the triceratops, who has three horns, each one signifying a time his wife cheated on him with Tommy Smithbags from down the street. Cuckoldry: forever attendant on those who eat ferns. The triceratops isn't even extinct; it's just embarrassed and hiding behind Mt. Rushmore.

4. Rectangle
The rectangle comes at you in all shapes and forms, from circles, to squares, to who-knows-what. You can't really draw a rectangle or really even measure it at all. It's like a sack filled with mud. You either sit on the sack, or pour out the mud and use the sack for something else...sorta -- it's, like, rectangles are all gross and muddy, but they're all kinda similar, too. Same thing, really.

5. Trapezoid
Pronounced trape-squad, the trapezoid is spending most of its time wandering aimlessly across Europe; just wasting Dad's money -- just whatever -- and we're all getting pret-ty sick of its shit. Get a real job. Also, I'm not buyin' it. I'm not even buyin' that this thing even exists, because I don't go to Europe for walks 'n' shit. Go back to France. 

6. Alaska
It's big; it's northerly; it's distinctive. It looks like Alaska, every time. It's not like New Hampshire, which is just inverted Vermont. Those two states have got to be fucking kidding me. They could switch places every time I look at the map, and I wouldn't notice.

7. Amoebas
Amoebas are cool because they have only one cell. The coffee you are drinking right now is probably filled with amoebas. I've seen a bunch of amoebas in high school science class, so I know exactly how it feels for you to be drinking poison.

8. Slabs of Meat
Most shapely meat slabs have gone through a process of tenderizing, which makes them all the more tantalizing and damp. Take the damp meat, place it onto a frying pan on medium heat, and create a household smell. The kitchen is really the Hertz of the houseboat.

9. Dome
The tricky thing about domes is you got your domes, but then you got your super-domes. Now, domes are easy and no probs, McBlobs. But if you're talkin' super-domes, you're talkin' maintenance, you're talkin' keepin' the dome up to code, you're dealin' with the dome inspector, Sal Moutsitrakas, you gotta reseed, run the pipes -- the list goes on. Stick to small upside-down domes, such as cereal bowls. No one even knows you have them, or molluscum.

10. Ten
The number "10" is a neat shape because you can't wait to reach it if you are counting to ten. It's kinda like a goal, or stuffs.

Top 10 People You're Seeing Around

Admit it. You're seeing everybody around. All people see other people. You're not the exception, and you know it. This list of people you're probably seeing sitting around will help you be able to know what types of people you're seeing, and why you see them. More importantly, this list will prepare you, most likely, to see more individuals who do or do not matter whatsoever. Pretty much who cares. 

10. The Guy On The Train
This is that guy who's on the train with you sometimes, and he's just going about his business, like a doof.

9. Some Doof
This doofstick is just doofin' around your neighborhood, with absolutely no regard for you, regardless of your regard for him.

8. Wheelchair Individual
Some individual stands out, because he can't stand up, so you just stare at him, regularly, and think, I wonder if this guy could walk before, or if he was born with his legs bitten off by a killer whale.

7. Tim Johnson
You're seein' Tim around, because he's your roommate. Or you're seeing some other person.

6. Salesman
Full of salesmanship, the salesman wants so badly for you to purchase his piece of crap merchandise that blows.

5. Your Grandma
Your Grandma is always around, and it's really getting on your nerves, mostly because she's irrelevant.

4. Skateboarder
He is skateboarding past you right now (couldn't land a simple kickflip to save his life, though).

3. Blobs
There are blobs everywhere. Admit it.

2. Robot
Don't even.

1. Man Fighting A Swan
A grown-ass man spending his entire Saturday knocking a beautiful swan unconscious with a folding chair. This guy is a real nutcase. Or is he? Who are you to judge? I really think the important thing to remember, here, is that you have absolutely no idea what happened between this guy and the swan before you decided to get nosy. Mind your business. Admit that you should mind your beeswax.

How to Exercise Active Nonviolent Resistance While Playing Grand Theft Auto V

A lot of people were talking about GTA V when it first came out. Well, congratulations to them for being so prompt. Now I'm talking about it, because that's how I do shit. I talk about shit nice and late, after the buzz has faded, so my article gets shamefully low readership. Despite its short reach, this article is important for a variety of made-up reasons:

1. The New York Times is going to allude to it in the latest issue of Sports Illustrated for Kids.

2. The Atlantic will use it as a reference for important research on postmodern blogging of the 21st century (This particular blog post is very postmodern; in fact, it's so postmodern that I can't even finish this sent--).

3. The Atlantic Ocean will use it.

Anyway, this is how you play GTA V while exercising Gandhi's unique approach of active nonviolent resistance: You walk around. You look at stuff. You lose.

You lost.

Useful List #1: Top 10 Insulting College Thesis Titles

Participating in life is difficult, especially when you have to write a college thesis (they're so long!). That's why I've chosen to help students tackle one of the toughest parts of the writing process: the title.

Usually, when you are writing your thesis, you have "Senior-itis," and you just plain don't give a shit about school, or grades, or your future in general. We can all agree on that last part, especially: the future. Big whoop! Who cares about the future? It's not like the future is more important just because you have more of it ahead of you. Actually, according to internal research I have conducted inside of my own brain off the top of my head just now, the future should be the last thing on your mind during your senior year of college.

That is why I have composed the following list of 10 insulting college thesis titles. Having a punchy, abusive heading can really help your paper stand out and establish your legacy as a maniac who experienced a meltdown and blew it bigtime. Check it out!

1. I Will Take a Crap on Your Head 
This title delivers a stern, yet predictably empty threat to your professor, letting him know that you at least feel as though a considerably large piece of your own personal crap should be deposited on his head as soon as humanly possible.

2. Eat Beef, then Barf Beef, Buddy
Besides the playful alliteration, this clever injunction has the tendency to befuddle the professor and pique her curiosity. Good lord, what am I about to read? she might think to herself. 

3. Your Class Taught Me to Hate You
This one is nice because it blames your own hatred of your professor entirely on the professor himself, possibly resulting in a temporary feeling of sadness on his part.

4. Balls
Just balls.

5. I'm Giving You the Finger, Always
A feeling of always and forever can really drive home your point, which is that you will be flipping your professor the bird, however metaphorical, in perpetuity.

6. You Smell
Juvenile and brief, a solid "You Smell" can spice up your thesis and make your professor think, Hey, maybe I do smell, or maybe not. Probably not, though. Either way, this student will be getting an F.

7. Nice One
Sometimes general sarcasm is the best kind of sarcasm. Are you saying that your paper is, in fact, not a nice one, because you simply don't care? Are you telling your professor that her assignment was a lame attempt to get you to learn? When you are vague in your sarcastic insult title, you make it more powerful than you ever imagined.

8. You Gotta Be Kidding Me
It's just that he's got to be fuckin' kidding you, all up in the learning environment. 

9. Cut the Shit
Here, you're just simply asking her to cut the crap, like she's coming at you with a whole load of bull-crap, and you want her to quit it, because you're fed up, and you've had just about enough of her nonsense.

10. Who Cares
Exactly. Who cares, indeed? You certainly don't. And that is why you have written a college thesis entitled, Who Cares.
 

Sticker Vandalism Rage Scrape

I work as a mechanic for a bike share company. The bikes are out there on the streets, being shared by the public. Bike sharing is fantastic.

Unfortunately, there are lots of vandals out there, putting stickers on the bikes. These vandals are vandalizing the bikes, presumably, because they are cooler than the bikes. Also, they do it, presumably, because they are rebelling against the man (since there are advertisements on the bikes). Very rebellious!

Guess what, vandals? I'm in there with the other mechanics, scraping off your stickers, and it's a waste of time. It'd be different if we had no bikes to fix--in that case I might thank you for giving us work to do, and, in turn, job security. But we're all set. We have plenty of work to do without having to scrape off your dumb stickers, which are so dumb no matter what. By that I mean you're dumb, as in, not cool. And your stickers are dumb, in general.

Your stickers are so dumb. For instance, "Robot Love." I don't know who's putting the "Robot Love" stickers on the bikes, but we'd like you to stop. It's not cool (by "not cool," I don't mean "not okay," I mean, "it's not cool, just like you're not cool, as I explained above [you're dumb]").

In order to be cool, you have to be sticking your sticker to the man in some way. Your "Robot Love" stickers are being stuck to the little guy. They stick to me and my colleagues. I know it must be hard to come to terms with this. You're just not good at being cool or sticking cool stickers on stuff. You and everybody else like you seem to have made a huge mistake, and there appears to be some sort of sticker misunderstanding.

Let me put it this way: Last week, I spent a great deal of time spraying your stickers with denatured alcohol and scraping them off the down-tube of our bikes with a razor blade. I scraped your sticker and listened to CONVERGE, and I rocked out to it, and my rage flowed generously. I raged your stupid sticker to pieces and removed every last trace of it. The angry guy who listens to CONVERGE while removing the sticker is the cool guy. By "cool" I mean "not you," or, more specifically, "you as you see yourself, but not as you are." The working man is the cool guy. CONVERGE-rage-sticker-scrape guy is the cool guy.

Every time you adhere a sticker to the bike-share bike, you decrease your coolness points, and increase mine and those of my coworkers. Is that what you want? Do you want 11 bike mechanics to be cooler and more rebellious than you are, wearing our little polyester uniforms and listening to IRON MAIDEN. We listen to IRON MAIDEN and thrash your decals, "Robot Love." We hate-thrash your adhesives and rock out to IRON MAIDEN. The more stickers you stick, the more we become what you hope to be. We're so cool we can't stand it.

You know that part in Return of the Jedi? The part where Luke wears the hood? You want that so badly, but you can't just sticker your way into a Jedi hood, "Robot Love." You can't vandalize your way into the Rebel Alliance.

You want to be a rebel, right? Like Andre Agassi, right? Like Agassi? Well, let me ask you this, "Robot Love": If you're such a rebel, where, pray tell, is your two-handed backhand? Hm? I'm not seeing any groundstrokes. I'm not seeing them anywhere.

Anyway, we're all just listening to CANNIBAL CORPSE and hating your misguided, misapplied artwork.

A Letter To A Friend

My "friend" Jeff, in Spain. Total flake.

Hi, everybody.

I'm concerned about my friend, Jeff, because he's on a big trip in Spain, and he sent me a link to his blog, Double Daffy, and he asked me to read it. I didn't want to read it, though, because I am worried sick about him. What if he gets hurt in Europe?! Lots of people get hurt in Europe, and Asia. Here is the email response I wrote to him (I used lots of italics to create emphasis and hammer my point into his head):


Dear Jeff,

There's no one on the highway in Spain. 

Why's Kevin there? I have no idea what's going on. I can't keep track of that guy. He's all over the place. 

By the way, Jeff: reality check. Get a real job. I mean, when I see some of these paintings in these museums, I think, What's the point of art? It doesn't do anything. You know? At least contribute something to the world. I don't know why more school districts don't just cut funding for art class and other electives. It's such a waste of time and money. Kids can learn art on their own time. 

Also, we should not talk to our kids about sex, because it will give them ideas! Just go to church, watch the game, invest wisely, scrimp and save, have kids, and make their rooms the right colors (blue for the boy, pink for the girl) so they both choose to be straight. It's that simple, as you drive your Beamer. Afford the Beamer, drive the Beamer, total the Beamer on Storrow Drive. It's that simple. Get it through your thick skull. 

Get it together, Jeff. I'm sick of seeing you not in America. Just get an internship. That's how it starts. Get an internship at a management consulting firm, like Bain and Company, work hard, and who knows? Maybe one day you can look at your savings account and think, Man, I have a lot of money in my savings account; I'm gonna plan a trip to the Hamptons. Have you even once considered what's going on in the Hamptons? A lot. A lot is going on there, but you continue to traipse around in Spain, of all places, with your little beard and your little friend Kevin, while you film things with your camera and literally tilt at windmills. In the end, Jeff, we both know you're tilting at yourself. Hm? Possibly? Perhaps you tilt at the demons that reside in your soul. Stop it. Stop tilting. 

You're trying to live a pipe dream (or is it a PIPE NIGHTMARE?!!!) and it's really starting to make you look foolish. I mean, you're running around in Spain and Grenada--where we once had a war, you know, in the '80s, with howitzers and parachutes and rebel forces and all that stuff, just like Black Hawk Down, or Full Metal Jacket, or The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane--you're running around in these strange countries with your pants around your ankles, marking your territory, like some sort of dog--yeah, dog, you son of a bitch--and you expect me to be excited that you're creating so-called "art" with your "camera" and your "brain" and your "body," which is covered in blood, internally, by the way (but, of course you refuse to go to a doctor and get it checked out, because you don't have health insurance)? You expect me to be happy about that and read your "Double Daffy" blog? I decline, sir. I decline to read your travel blog. Instead, I'll do something constructive and go to the travel agent and book a trip for me and the wife to the Poconos, because Mount Airy Lodge is definitely still open. I'll be drinking a glass of Riesling, sitting in the hot tub, and driving my Beamer, thinking to myself, I hope Jeff's happy making his "art," and wasting his time on his films, because I'm damn happy driving my Beamer through this red light and into a pedestrian. That's what I'll be thinking, pal. 

Reality check. 

Your friend,

Will


After sending him this email, I received an automated response:

Hi!
I'll be on location in Spain until August 1st for this super fun job I'm doing.
I'm going to check emails as much as possible.

xo
Jeff

I don't understand why I can't get through to him. The kid's a loose cannon.

Timmy Disgustufson's Haus

I still haven't finished Moby-Dick. It's been about a year since I started. It's not even that the book is hard to read. It's actually not that hard to read. It's just that I haven't been reading at all for these last few months. It doesn't feel good not to read. The problem is that I no longer have a long subway commute. I ride my bike to work everyday, nowadays, and it's really great, but the trade off is that I don't get the train reading time.

I am getting ready to continue the book, though. I have been reading the SparkNotes on the chapters I have already read, just to refresh my memory. I had forgotten some stuff about the characters. For instance, I couldn't remember which guy was a dick: Stubb or Flask. Turns out it was Flask. What a dick that guy is. But Stubb is the one who got disrespected by Ahab. Ahab really put him in check.

The book is just sitting on my nightstand, as I write this. Just sitting there, neglected.

Today I had an artisan ice cream sandwich that really pissed me off. I got it from Cool Haus. They had a truck in the Prospect Park food truck rally. They just took two cookies and shoved a glob of ice cream in the middle, and charged me six bucks. Then, the ice cream melted at a geometric rate and dripped all over my hands and shoes. I was a mess. I had to hurry and finish the ice cream before it melted all over the place. As a result, I couldn't enjoy it. Melted ice cream disgusts me. Also, the chips in the chocolate chip cookies that bookended the ice cream were melting. I hate melted chocolate chips. The whole thing was a shitshow. Cool Haus sucks.

Cool Haus sucks so bad that the name of their food truck should be, "Crappy Chipwich," because that's what they give you. It's an ice cream dump truck that dumps poorly-constructed chocolate chip cookie sandwiches all over Grand Army Plaza. It takes a dump in your neighborhood and in your mouth. That truck sucks. I didn't like the guy in there, either. He would be the type to work in a truck that sucks. Nice truck...it sucks. Who wants to pay six bucks to a guy who sells stuff that sucks out of a truck that sucks? I think some dripped onto my shorts, too, because there's a stain there, now, that wasn't there before. My clothes are besmirched like those of a slovenly child. Cool Haus, unfortunately, is the house of Timmy Disgustufson, and I was foolish enough to cross its sloppy threshold.

I had a Nantucket Nectar earlier in the day that was good, though.  

Aaron the Dog

My dog met another dog named Lucy, today.  She was so small and coquettish.  They got along well.  He met her while he was playing with his best dog friend, Aaron.  Aaron and Franklin (my dog) were UFC fighting each other in a playground in Fort Greene, and then this woman came over with Lucy, and everyone had a blast.

Then I found out that Aaron has smegma leaking out of his penis.  Every day, my friend has to squeeze the green smegma out of there, by hand, in much the same way a farmer plies the udder of a cow.  Just pinching and tugging until the sludgy discharge is freed from its dick prison.  They took Aaron to the veterinarian to get it checked out, and the veterinarian lady said the smegma was not a problem unless Aaron's penis leaked more than a tablespoon a day.  A TABLESPOON a day.  I'm glad she used a cooking utensil as a point of reference for dog smegma.  I'll think of that next time I make pancakes.  "Mmm, this is delicious flapjack batter.  Could use a touch of dog smegma, though.  Quick, prepare the measuring spoons and your dog's crotch."

 Otherwise, Aaron is the picture of health.  He has such a shiny coat.      

Very Informative

I stayed up really late, because I took a huge nap until 10 PM.  Now look at me.  It's almost 6 AM.  I feel like a real jerksquad.

Earlier tonight, I ate exactly three chocolate chip cookies.  Then I received heartburn and was forced to medicate myself with Tums.  Tums are actually pretty effective, and they taste like weak Sweet Tarts, which means they taste pretty good.

I am embarrassed to say that I have completely lost my momentum with Moby-Dick.  I haven't been reading it regularly, at all, and, as a result, I am still about halfway through, even though I started reading it months ago.  The good news is that I went to Nantucket with my family and got to see all types of cool stuff regarding Melville's magnum opus.  I even went to the whaling museum and saw a huge sperm whale skeleton.  Sperm whales are prodigious leviathans, and they can destroy you, if they so desire.  I also saw a bent harpoon, alongside many straight harpoons and other whaling accoutrements.  Very rusty and old and heavy.  Also, they played this video about Nantucket, and it was very informative.  I just became overwhelmed by an urge not to explain the video at all, so we'll just leave it at that.

We went to a restaurant, on Nantucket, called Queequeg's.  Turns out it is not the type of place Queequeg would ever patronize.  It's basically just a fancy bar that sells expensive burgers.

You know what's good on Nantucket?  The pre-made sandwiches at Cumberland Farms.  I was pleasantly surprised by this.  Cumby's.  So good.  Tuna sammy.  Not too shabby, if you ask me.

Hey, check it out: I have this new job where I work in a warehouse and get to wear a hard hat sometimes.  It's awesome.  Forklifts possess such strength.  I can't believe it.  If you engage in horseplay near the working forklift, you risk immediate squish-death.

     

Aunt Charity and My Son Rick

Moby-Dick is coming along swimmingly.  I didn't read it today, but I read a bunch of it yesterday.  Ishmael and his pal, Queequeg, have boarded the Pequod, and they are getting ready to shove off.

This line, about a character named Aunt Charity, made me laugh: "And like a sister of charity did this charitable Aunt Charity bustle about hither and thither..."  Good use of repetition by Melville on that one.  And you can't go wrong with "hither and thither."  Good choice of words.  Well choiced.  I want to have twin sons and name them Hither and Thither.  Actually, Hither looks too much like it says Hitler.  For example: Hither was in Germany.  That's just a sentence about my son backpacking in Europe, but most people would read it as "Hitler was in Germany," which is a sentence about a ruthless dictator's location on the planet.  I'll just name my twins Thither and Rick.  "Hey, Thither, stop bustling about!" I'll say, "and don't kick Rick."    

I am excited for the Pequod to start its grand voyage into the Pacific.  Whaling seems fun.  I would whale.  Would you whale?  I would.  I'd ride on a whaling boat and poke a whale with a blubber pike.  The whale is an intimidating aquatic beast, but I would slash it to ribbons.  The sperm whale, that is.  I would murder a ferocious sperm whale.  I would never hurt a dolphin, though.  I've seen The Cove.  Good documentary.  Leave the dolphins alone to frolic and chuckle.  I could never stab a dolphin.  They're too cute and self-aware.  I hope Moby-Dick doesn't have a part where dolphins are slaughtered in a lagoon.  That would sadden me.  I was saddened by that part in The Cove, when the fishermen killed all the trapped dolphins.

The Fisherman's Platter is an expensive and unpopular meal that somehow makes it onto the menu of most diners. 

Adventure Quest

I didn't read Moby-Dick at all today.  I am such a blobmaestro. 

Man.  My dog is looking at me straight in the face right now.  He has a tawny pelt, like a she-lion.  His coat of butterscotch fur shines like a Werther's Original and smells like nachos.  I caress him on a regular basis.  Uhp, now he's barfing up yellow spume on the floor.  

Have you ever read King Solomon's Mines, by H. Rider Haggard?  They made a movie out of it, in the eighties, starring Richard Chamberlain.  I love Richard Chamberlain.  We have similar physiques and chest hair.  He was also in Shogun, the miniseries.  Great decapitation scene in that one.  Also, Richard Chamberlain gets peed on in that miniseries.

So King Solomon's Mines is a great book.  It's slightly racist, at times, but not too shabby, nevertheless.  It's actually really progressive for a book written in the late nineteenth century by a white guy.  It's considered a "romance," in that it is about some heroes going on an adventure quest in a foreign land.  There is some actual kissy, smoochy romance in it too, for example, the interracial love affair that develops between Captain Good and Foulata. 

They say that H. Rider Haggard wrote this book in about four months, after making a bet with his brother that he could write a better adventure story than Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.  I can't tell whether or not he succeeded.  Great book, though.  Lots of exciting battle scenes and funny turns of phrase. 

If I wrote a book in four months, it would probably be way worse than King Solomon's Mines.  I know what it would be about, though.  It would be about a bike messenger who gets his thighs smushed by a dump truck, rendering him incapable of thrashing the streets.  It would be called, Because of the Squishing Force of that Truck, My Legs Are Like Those of a Ragdoll. 

 

 

Moby-Dick: The Original Bosom Buddies

Oh man. My computer is really old, so I can't update my "plug-ins" for the browser, and writing these blog posts has turned into a mental chess match between me and my Powerbook G4. I'm not even good at chess with humans. I'm good at Stratego, though. I'd be able to vanquish any computer in a mental Stratego match, including the computer inside KITT from Knight Rider.

I've recently begun reading Moby-Dick. It is my summertime tome. My goal is to write updates on my Moby-Dick experience in my blog, here. It's a good book. Did you know that Herman Melville was from New York City? He was born there in 1819. He mentions some nice local NYC places, like Rockaway beach. I've been to Rockaway beach numerous times. The waves are tremendous. Did you know that, during his time in Massachusetts, Melville's next door neighbor was Nathaniel Hawthorne? Not too shabby.

I'm about 70 pages into the book. The best character so far is Queequeg. That guy rules. He is from a small island near New Zealand, and he is covered in tribal tattoos, and he carries shrunken heads around and shaves his face with his harpoon. Also, he has teeth that have been filed to points, like the clown from Stephen King's IT. Ishmael shows up to a broken down inn in New Bedford, MA, and is forced to share a bed with Queequeg, and he is afeared of him. In the morning, Ishmael wakes up and notices that Queequeg's arm is around him, and they're spooning. Within 24 hours they are super best pals and delight in platonic snuggling and pillow talk. Queequeg promises to be Ishmael's best buddy for life and always to protect him. It is a beautiful pagan-Christian bro-mance.

Then they're on a schooner to Nantucket, and some guy mocks Queequeg, and Queequeg throws him in the air--not hurting him, just scaring him. Then, a few minutes later, when that same guy gets knocked overboard by the boom, Queequeg magnanimously saves him from drowning. You simply can't go wrong with Queequeg. Great guy. I hope Melville doesn't kill him off too quickly.

This book rules.

Victorian Gangsterness

The Mayor of Casterbridge. Good book. I like it. Thomas Hardy. Good author.

I read this book a couple of months ago, and I've always wanted to discuss it here in my blog. The Mayor of Casterbridge is essentially a book about the consequences of gangsterness. The main character, Michael Henchard, is such an inveterate gangster that he ends up ruined and lonely. Early on, the book launches right into the action, when Michael gets drunk on spiked oatmeal in some weird tent at a county fair, and then decides to sell his wife and baby, because he is sick of their nonsense. Some sailor enters the scene and purchases the wife and kid, and Michael passes out in the tent, waking up the next morning to the realization that he might have done something horrible, not because he sold his wife and kid like cattle, but because, by selling them, he might have besmirched his reputation. After deciding that everything is cool because he did not give any witnesses his name, Michael departs and eventually becomes the mayor of a town called Casterbridge.

I didn't know characters in Victorian novels could be so pimplike. Among other gangsterisms, Michael manages to win his wife back nineteen years later (the one that he sold), lie to everyone around him, and fight a Scottish man in a hayloft with one hand tied behind his back. Totally an entertaining character.

Another entertaining character is the hapless Abel Whittle, who works for Michael.  Abel is always late for work, because he always sleeps in. He can't seem to get to work on time. He even tries tying a string to his big toe and hanging it out the window for one of his coworkers to tug on while passing by his home during the morning commute. This works okay, but sometimes his coworker forgets to tug the string, leaving Abel over-sleeping soundly. Anyway, after multiple warnings about his lateness, Abel blows it again and fails to show up on time. So Michael goes to his house, jars him awake, and forces him to go to work with no pants on.

At the end of the story, Michael Henchard wanders off and dies alone in the woods, like a dog.

The book is totally good.

Beat Games

Have you ever beaten the video game, Super Contra? That game is awesome. Have you ever beaten Contra? That game is awesome, too. I flipped both of those games on countless occasions with my good friend, J-----. We would blast the audio out of the stereo speakers in the dorm room, and then the RA would come by and scold us. Ironic, is it not? We were able to defeat the Vile Red Falcon, but we were not able to defy some RA dude. That is the mysterious way of things.

Have you ever tried to beat the game, Milon's Secret Castle? That game is so impossible. Have you even heard of that game? It was really obscure. I got it from my uncle on the weird, obscure side of my family. You have to be really good at video games to beat that game.

When I was in college, I played a lot of Quake. I played online. Freshman year. My friend played online, too, and his screen name was "'Tude Adjuster." He went to Vassar, which was a better school than mine, and he would always beat me in Quake, because he was smarter than I was. Neither of us had friends.

"'Tude Adjuster" and I went to golf camp during the summer in high school. We would play golf on this small, unkempt course where all the holes were par 3's. My other friend got a summer job there, and he said he saw one of the college-aged workers beat a beaver to death with a 9-iron in the tool shed.

At that same club, we would sometimes get stuck playing golf with this weird kid, E-----, who would rub dirt on his face when he got frustrated/fatigued. "Oh man, E----- got a double-bogey, and now he's exfoliating his skin with a divot." That kid wasn't a talented golfer. He's probably good at other stuff. I, too, am not much of a golfer. I am much better at racquet sports.

Cesspool Sweeper

I have been sitting at this cafe all day. I don't usually do that, but I secured a good spot near the outlet, and now I am dug in like an Alabama tick. Who loves references to the movie, Predator, as much as I do? Cool. Great film.

My friend and I were watching the guy who works at the Thai restaurant across the street sweep filthy sidewalk water into the sewer drain. He was wearing a bathrobe and open-toed lounge slippers, like Ray Liotta, at the end of Goodfellas, when he retrieves the newspaper in the front yard of his Witness Protection Program house. Not a good outfit choice for sanitation work. That guy is going to get some sort of foot fungus. It made it seem like he just sleeps in the restaurant, next to the Pad Thai machine.

Belgian Zombocalypse

I am reading World War Z, by Max Brooks, son of Mel Brooks. I'm pretty sure I hate the book. Absolutely no character development whatsoever. Whenever I grow to like a certain character in the story, the perspective changes, and I have to get used to a new character. It's a little exhausting. Hopefully, by the time I finish this book, I will love it.

I brushed my dog, today. You could tell he felt conflicted about it. He mostly liked it, but it clearly made him somewhat uncomfortable.

Tonight I told my dog to "come" and "sit," and then, when he followed my commands, I explained that I just lost respect for him, because he shouldn't just do stuff because people tell him to. I'm trying to train him to be less of a patsy.

As I ate three and a half Belgian waffles tonight, I considered how I might be making a dining error, but I went ahead and completed my feast of doom. Now I feel like a baking soda volcano.

On Your Left!

I love cycling, but it is a sport for a-holes. There are many reasons why, but I am not going to list them. I don't want to expend the energy, and I am sick of thinking about it.

But check this out:

My girlfriend and I always get harassed by a cycling club that rides in Prospect Park. For the purposes of this blog post, I will refer to this cycling club as the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters. These guys HATE us. They don't like anybody that "gets in their way." It's a classic cycling mentality: "What I'm doing on my bicycle is more important than what you're doing on your bicycle, here in the park." My girlfriend and I get in their way a lot, because we ride through the park with our dog attached to my bicycle. They don't approve of that, because it takes up extra space and appears reckless.

The ringleader of the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters is extra curmudgeonly. One time there was an accident in the park, in which a little girl fell off her mom's bike trailer, because a bolt was loose, and smacked her face against the asphalt. It looked terrible. The girl stood up and started crying, her helmet askew, and her mom ran to her and picked her up, making sure she was okay. As she did this, the ringleader, who had stopped to help, began yelling at her and telling her to get out of the way of the bike path:


RINGLEADER: (confusing everybody and exacerbating situation) Don't stop! Don't stop! Don't stop!

LADY: (hysterical) My baby!

RINGLEADER: Get out of the way of the path! Move over! Move over! Get her out of there!

LADY: Fuck you, sir!

RINGLEADER: Move the bike! Yahhhhhghg! (pointing at me and my girlfriend, who are watching from the other side of the street) We got dogs on leashes! Attached to bicycles!!

ME: Relax.

RINGLEADER: I'm not excited!! I've been riding in this park for thirty years!!

MY GIRLFRIEND: So have I!

RINGLEADER: Yaahagahgh!! Miflbpblst!!!


In case you didn't know, by riding your bike in Prospect Park for thirty years, you become an authority figure, and you're then allowed to yell at people.

The next day, the ringleader rode past us and exclaimed, "There's the yutz from yesterday!" Then he flipped us the bird. This is a sixty year-old man we're talking about. He gave us the sixty year-old middle finger, which I didn't even know existed.

For the next few weeks we had a vendetta with the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters. We engaged in shouting matches with them every time they rode past us. It was frustrating, because I could never think of any good insults to cast upon the ringleader. He rode by too fast. The best I could do was yell, "You're old!" But that wasn't effective. I had to come up with a plan.

I researched the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters online, and, as expected, there wasn't much information available. No website, no nothing. (Old people fear computers.) But I did find a Flickr page through which some bike repair guy in Park Slope sells the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters bike jerseys. Apparently, to be a part of their crew, all you need to do is purchase one of the wool jerseys for $110.00 and persuade them that you are worthy:

"If you are interested, please email me at: blah@blahbikerepair.com with a convincing argument as to why we should consider you grumpy enough to wear one of our jerseys. If we buy your story, we'll let you know where to send your deposit check."

Perfect! I finally had a way to deliver a death blow in this silly blood feud. I would order a jersey for my dog, and he could wear it while running next to my bike in the park, and if the ringleader gave us the finger again, he would only be telling himself to go fuck himself. A brilliant conceit.

Here is the email I wrote to the bike repair guy/Crotchety Old Wheelmasters jersey salesman:


Hi Blah,

I just checked out your website. It's awesome!

I especially like how you restore vintage bikes and are a Brooklyn native. My girlfriend is from Brooklyn, and I recently moved here (to Brooklyn) to live with her. We live right next to Prospect Park, and, being an avid cyclist, I couldn't wait to absolutely bomb Prospect Park on my 1989 Ciocc, which is my baby! On your left!!

Anyway, for the last few weekends, I have been riding the paceline with The Crotchety Old Wheelmasters, though it's been hard to keep up! Am I worthy of the jersey? I think so. I was on my college's road team for three years, was a messenger in Boston for four years, and rode in the Bikes Not Bombs Riding Club for five years before coming to NYC. I love cycling and bike mechanics, and I have loved riding with the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters (some of their grumpiness might even be rubbing off on me!).

What do I do to order one of these jerseys?


I received an immediate response, in which the bike repair guy/Crotchety Old Wheelmasters jersey salesman told me that he was excited to see me in the park on my classic Ciocc, and attached an order form for me to fill out. This was going to be a work of genius. I couldn't wait to carry out my clever strategem.

At this point in the story, I wish I could say that I went through with the order, put the jersey on my dog, and fooled the ringleader into telling himself to go fuck himself, but, unfortunately, that never happened. It would have been too much of a financial investment for a prank. Plus, I would be giving money to my enemy, which doesn't make much sense.

So I left it alone. What's funny is that I keep getting reminder emails from the bike repair guy/Crotchety Old Wheelmasters jersey salesman, like this one:


We have not received your order form and check yet. The order will go in on Friday - with or without you.

We don't care.


I know he is intentionally trying to sound crotchety in an effort to stay true to the cycling club's whole "grumpy" theme, but still, c'mon, try to be a little more friendly, so people will actually care when you die one day. No one is impressed by your grumpiness. That goes for the whole Crotchety Old Wheelmasters bike club. You obviously want to be cool and want to be liked, otherwise you wouldn't be drawing so much attention to yourself. Shift your attitude and stop yelling at people in the park.

"Indeed, most of [men's] vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world."

-John Steinbeck