Ratatat

I went to a Ratatat concert last night. Here are some loose observations:

-Just as scattered carcasses and bones may warn you there are wolves about, many brightly colored track bikes with "chode" handlebars warns you there are hipsters about. Before I got into the venue I had apt warning that I would be stepping into a realm beyond my knowing. A realm involving skinny jeans, v-neck t-shirts, and thick rimmed glasses. If I was out a-hunting for hipsters, I would have definitely nailed me a "six-point buck" at the concert.

-Ratatat is very popular amongst high school kids. So is being "straight edge," which absolutely confounds me, because for the longest time kids who didn't smoke, drink or do drugs populated the chess team and knew what a d20 is. All I learned about them at this concert is that they have absolutely no fun doing anything.

-The opener was amazing, but kind of dorky (one song was about wizards) and so the crowd completely snubbed them. The second opener was Despot, who is the shit, but since he has red hair and raps he was also snubbed. I missed most of Despot's set because I left the club to eat cajun egg rolls at Bonefish Grill.

-Ratatat has awesome video visuals with their show. There was one with a bunch of bird's heads swirling around. I remember thinking: "do drugs next time you see Ratatat." Then I looked over at some hippie dude dancing all crazy with this look about him like he had lost any sort of control of his mind, so I revised my thought to: "be thankful for sanity."

Into the public (restroom)

It is an amazing day anytime you have a completely original experience. Even if it is as simple as reading a new word or as profound as traveling to a new country. Today I had one such experience. I walked into a public restroom and the distinct aroma of pancake syrup filled my nostrils. I was not expecting such a pleasant, appetizing smell to come from a public restroom. I looked around in the cupboards and on shelves; perhaps I would find a bottle of syrup-scented bathroom spray that would explain everything. Alas the only item I could locate was an orange can of the typical citrus scent. This bathroom was not a gender-specific bathroom, and I remembered passing a woman as I walked down the hallway. I naturally began to think to myself "does that woman's feces smell like maple syrup?" As baffling of a revelation as that would be, it was a conclusion I could not avoid in my mind. This was a new reality where shit does not smell like shit, but other things. Things you enjoy. Worse, things you want to EAT.

I tried to think up other scenarios so as not to confound myself with a new reality of the world. I thought perhaps this woman was on a diet and as hunger and cravings finally overcame her she rushed to the nearest breakfast establishment (an excellent, exclusively Boise place called Goldy's.) Perhaps she ordered the short stack, thinking she could tame the beast within her with just a small offering. When the time came to cover her steaming, golden hotcakes with a portion of maple syrup, the warm and sweet smell must have entered her nose and she poured a quantity of syrup so massive that when she rushed off to the office bathroom to hastily consume them the syrup came pouring out of the to-go box onto the tile floor. Being a responsible patron of public restrooms, she cleaned up her mess (which is more than I can say for most,) so that by the time I entered the bathroom the only lingering indication of the delicious sap was the distinctive smell.

This is what I told myself to keep the reality of my world intact. That was not a UFO, that was just a weather balloon; just sunlight glinting off the troposphere. That woman's shit does not smell like maple syrup.

come on!

i mean, the article is already talking about prostate exams, but the photo they use is just simply unnecessary.

Teeth Bombs 2.0 (poop)

I'm reminded of an obscure Jewish prayer where after you use the bathroom or even pass gas you say "chalulim chalulim nkavim nkavim" thanking your openings for opening and your closings for closing, and acknowledging that should they fail, you couldn't exist.

Let me tell you about the greatest thing ever. This is when you've been eating responsibly for a few days after nothing but bananas rice and pancakes have turned your insides to a glue-like nature. But lately you've been hitting the ruffage, salads, fruits and dark beers with a vengeance. You feel a slight pressure in your stomach, nothing crazy but you humor it and go to the bathroom, simply relax and exhale and lose 6 pounds. That my friends, is the life, the life upgraded, life 2.0.

Teeth Bombs

After I get done brushing my teeth I like to use my tongue to do a quick sweep of the perimeter to make sure I didn't miss anything really important on my first go through with the toothbrush. Tonight I was digging around in my molars when I found a little morsel the $85 piece-of-shit electric money-wasting tooth-vibrator happened to miss. I worked at it for a little bit and when I finally popped the little piece loose it fell into the back of my throat. Even though I ate a BBQ pork sandwich with sweet pickels for dinner, somehow I managed to get a small piece of habanero pepper flake stuck in between two of my teeth. It was like a decades-old land mine and I was the dumbass walking through a field in a sweaty tanktop with a metal detector looking for loose change. The back of my throat felt like I had just drank bleach. Maybe I'm just being dramatic, but it was still kind of unsettling.

Attention Authors

I was browsing around the internet about five seconds ago when I came across a picture of the author Dave Eggers.

According to my own personal tastes, as well as the opinion of both friends and professional book critics, Dave Eggers writes good books. He is also involved in some sort of extremely long, hardbound journal called McSweeneys, which makes absolutely no sense to me. I find no reason why people would want a quarterly book delivered to their door which is basically just a long magazine with no pictures. I guess hipsters who don't like to read novels and can't risk having someone at a party bring up the topic of an unopened War and Peace. I see people who proudly display their entire McSweeneys collection on a bookshelf also having their Holy Bible hollowed out to accomodate a bag of weed and a few hits of ecstasy.

Anyway, as much as I like what Mr. Dave is doing with his writing career, he is falling to the trap that many authors fall into, which is the trap of looking like a douche in their author photos. When I read a book, the narrative style makes me form my own picture in my head about who the author is. Do they smoke menthol cigarettes? Do they like to watch amateur hockey? How many monkeys in their immediate vicinity triggers the emotional transition from amusement to fear? I also paint a picture of what I want this author to look like. Then I conclude the book, and all my hopes are dashed, and I am faced with the face of a douche.

Here are some authors who wrote good, or if not good at least popular, books and also happen to look like douches:


Not all authors look like douches in their photos. There is the "holy trinity" of badass looking authors, and they are as follows:




So if you're an author and you want to have your picture taken and you don't want to look like a douche, wait until you're old, give it some dramatic lighting, and write a book about fishing and killing things.

Living Monstro: Laundry

I have recently discovered that you can "do your laundry" in a fraction of the time previously thought. Simply dump your month's worth of dirty clothes onto the floor and sift out the socks and underwear. While the socks and underwear are going through the spin cycle, re-fold anything that doesn't stink or have obvious stains. Re-folded items go back into the drawer, stink/stain items are re-inserted into the dirty clothes basket (these need not be folded and can be crammed.) Fresh socks, fresh underwear, and a strong deodorant or cologne will make your wardrobe last at least until summer, when you can put the dirty pants away for the year and begin the cycle on shorts. The cycle is longer if you are single, and shorter if you have a significant other or a job that requires you to wear a tie or do dry cleaning.

Laundry is no fun unless you have a maid, and my maid "quit" like a week ago so I'm forced to make up new ways of living in this tough economy.

ooooh! newness!

look at our sleek new blog! Touch it! Touch me! (okay fine, Drew did it, but still, a man wants to be touched).

I have some (angry) things to say

I know it's so passe to bash things about facebook but I have a non-corporate beef to pick, mainly with some users and their exceptional array of life-suck.

Lately I have been working hard and recovering from getting my appendix knifed, leading an entirely UNADVENTUROUS life. Now granted I have still been doing things, getting my ass kicked in a frisbee league, doing improv with some eclectic, low life hilarity in Oakland and drinking, crying, masturbating and crying in exactly that order.

I'm slowly getting to my point, repress that ADD, do it...

I've noticed a trend in many MANY of my friends facebook profiles where they put up a photo album called "Adventures" or something of the sort.

Now everyone has their own definition of what adventure is, when I was recovering from my appendectomy I suppose an adventure was getting out of bed and pissing and then getting back into bed because it took great effort and 3 hours but that's a stretch.

What has me pissed off is these albums of "adventure" where it is the person posing with like 3 friends at a bar somewhere. Now if that bar is in Mauritania I admit that would make it more interesting but that would warrant a comment or something noting that so I have to say I don't think going drinking or sitting in your living room with a few friends is a motherfucking adventure.

Adventure is waking up with your passport glued to your palm with a Turkish entry visa on it and vague memories of tearin' up the casbah and doing a few lines off a hooker's lower back or ass region.

not this (even though, dude, craziest time, ever!):

"You've just met the Tinman"

The other day, I was getting into my car when a man came up and started talking to me. Now, I like talking to strangers, but I hope I don't end up like this...

Guy: "Hey there, lemme tell you something."

Me: "Huh?"

Guy: "I used to know Balthazar, when this was all his, poor bastard."

Me: "Well that's a sour thing."

Guy: "Lemme tell you something..."

Me: "Actually, I gotta get going, I'm in a hurry."

Guy: "Wait, first lemme tell you something, you've just met the Tinman."

Me: "Is that you?"

Guy: "I used to play harmonica, but I'm very spiritual."

Me: "Well it's a pleasure to meet you Tinman, I gotta go."

Guy: "Lemme tell you something else..."

Me: "What?"

Guy: "Be safe"

The Look

Man it's late I know it but I was messin' around on that website Facebook and I'll be damned if it didn't remind me that some people out there just have the Look. You know what I'm talking about, where a person just has a way about their face and their expressions and the way they hold a cup that just makes you wonder what the fuck that person may think about during a long plane flight or what they would do when forced with a decision of suspect moral clarity. There are some freaky-ass people out there, but the freaky ones aren't the guy you see sittin' with no pants on the sidewalk barking at the squirrels because that guy is predictable. He will be there with the squirrels and without the pants every day until he is dead or until his mind creates a new realm for him to frolic in. The freaky ones are the blond cheerleader with that look that makes you initially think everything is all right and then you see she doesn't look directly into the camera in photographs and is always standing behind a plant or something and you start to wonder if this isn't the type of person who might grow up and marry a comedian and shoot him in cold blood for no apparent reason like Phil Hartman's wife did. These are the people who get addicted to prescription drugs and drink Skyy vodka, these are the people who crash their Mercedes into a light pole at 4am on Christmas Eve, these are the people who cannot see the magic of children and the beauty of sunsets.

second Yikes of the day

I've lived in my apartment with Alex for nearly a year and a half, we are still on the same bottle of dish soap, that is both good and bad i guess.

retarded social behaviors

Last night I was at the Warriors game, it was Jewish Heritage Night so I got free tickets, cuz, well, don't worry about it, we are a mafia and I was sitting in a section with some people I knew and some people I didn't know. I was pretty tired and anti-social so I mainly focused on watching the Warriors get handled by the Jazz (it doesn't get mentioned enough how cool it is that there is an NBA team called "the Jazz") and ignored the meet and greet going on around me by a bunch of late 20's and early 30's Jewish women with ticking time bombs of uterus's.

Then, at the MOTHERFUCKING END OF THE GAME, as people are leaving, this girl in the row ahead of me gets up to leave and turns to all of us in the row behind her and asks all our names and goes through meeting us.

Why on earth would you do this at the end of the game? After I've spent 3 hours not talking to you and yelling foul things throughout the arena, why on earth would I suddenly want to meet you and get to know you now? Fucking people, man.

yikes

the other morning I almost washed my hands with toothpaste