Today is all about celebrating this: Cubs going to the playoffs!
It didn't look too promising earlier this year, but it's happened and the Cubs are just three series away from winning it all, thereby breaking the 100-year curse.
On a personal note, you know you’re dating a cool gal when she not only understands you’re a Cubs fan and is cool with the fact that you hate yourself enough to have made this lifelong, lifestyle choice (even though your father and grandfather are passionate White Sox fans), but she can grasp the turmoil that entails as the season winds down and they’re barely leading their division. So, she actually volunteers to pick up dinner so you don’t have to miss a pitch of the game.
Then, while at work, she sends you an e-card with the Wrigley Field marquee (the sign out front, not to be confused with pitcher Jason Marquis) reading "Cubs Win!" Take notes, ladies. Quality stuff here.
The playoffs start next week and I'm all kinds of focused. The momentum is in their favor and the pitching staff looks ready. What could possibly go wrong?
I was finally able to watch the season finale of “The Pick Up Artist” on VH1 Wednesday. This show may be just about the best thing I’ve ever seen.
The finale featured a face-off between the final two contestants, Brady - an attractive yet previously unconfident gentleman, and Kosmo - a Latino version of Brady. I’ve never seen so much crying on a reality TV show. Every time somebody got voted off, all the guys were sobbing their eyes out. It was like they were a brotherhood of socially awkward gentlemen – kind of like when I went to the Libertarian National Convention back in 2002. This was basically a Trekkie convention, just substituting the Vulcan “live long and prosper” signal with the peace sign.
Anyway, the best episode of “The Pick Up Artist” was last week, when Brady hooked up with a stripper. That was seriously the entire goal of the mission – to land an exotic dancer. That he did. He now has oral herpes, but the mission was, in fact, accomplished.
This week, during the finale the two combatants were judged on their abilities to teach another awkward gentleman how to be a pick up artist in just 7 hours. The hilarity was uncontained, although one guy did get a “number close,” and was told, “if you don’t call me and I see you again, I’m gonna be so mad.” That, my friends, is a definite I.O.I. (indicator of interest). The terms alone I’ve gleaned from the show are just magical.
Kosmo eventually won the contest and celebrated by, well, more crying. He now has $50,000 in prize money and will travel the world with his teacher, Mystery, and Mystery’s minions J-Dog and Matador – more than likely all birthnames, I think – picking up women of all nationalities. More power to them; I just hope they remember VD is universal.
Good lord, my TV is awesome. Just awesome. Sometimes I kiss it during football games.
Pretty tame week for me here in Indy. Last weekend, I took my lady to English Ivy’s. Definition of class: Taking your girl to a gay bar. But seriously, they have a really delicious restaurant inside and I’d recommend it. I had the chicken fingers and exceptionally wild rice, and she dined on a portabella mushroom sandwich (aka “fungi sammich ‘n tater salad”).
We’re both “Friends” fans so we played a DVD trivia game, Friends Scene-It. The game was a little bit of a letdown, since sometimes the DVD clue had nothing to do with the actual question. It would be something like a scene with Ross and Rachel kissing when they found out they’re having a baby, and then the question would be like, “How many nipples does Chandler have?” So yeah, that was somewhat disappointing. Also disappointing: I’m straight and rather competitive at “Friends” trivia.
Looking forward to “The Office” opener this Thursday. In the meantime, check this out from my favorite character on the show: Creed’s blog
The movers brought my new TV this morning. I had to meet them in Brownsburg at 8 a.m. to get into my friend's ex-house, but the deed is done. It was all pretty painless.
One of the guys hinted that he wanted a beer after moving it, so I supplied him with what I have in my fridge - Miller High Life Light in a can. Apparently 8:30 a.m. is what those in the moving biz refer to as "beer thirty." Good to know since they're usually driving enormous trucks around town on the morning rush hour.
The great thing about having a 47-inch TV in a fairly small apartment is that you're totally engulfed in whatever you're watching. Retina-melting power notwithstanding, this is all pretty exciting. For instance, while viewing "Man vs. Wild" on Discovery, you really feel like it's you paralyzing a fish while biting it in the back as its guts come out of its eyes. Glorious.
Today I'm seeing my new belle for a movie. More info on this relationship as it progresses, but she reads this so I probably won't get too detailed. We've been seeing each other for a bit and I've yet to ruin it, so that's always a plus. My friends are kind of mad at her because I haven't been bitter lately, which I guess was a great source of comedy for them. Lovely sentiment.
Have a great weekend, all.
I just bought a TV from a friend of mine who's moving to Chicago. The timing was magical considering mine has a huge scratch on the screen from when it fell over during my move back from Wyoming. This is a 47-inch monster and I only spent $350 for it, so I'm quite pumped.
Only problem is, Mitch and I tried to move it and it's so huge, it wouldn't fit in his dad's construction van. Even worse, it weighs a metric ton, and I don't need to further injure my ailing back. You know I had to quit yoga because it was hurting my back? Now I have to watch those ladies doing it in front of a waterfall in Belgium on Fit TV, drinking on my couch and yelling at the screen: "Lucky, you don't know how good you have it! In your tight pants, doing your glorious half dog poses!"
So I hired this cat who has his own moving company in Indy to move the TV for $150. Not bad, except the dude is cajun, I think, and I had a heck of a time understanding him on the phone. We had an entire conversation and from what I gathered, we're either moving the TV Saturday at 8 a.m. or I've agreed to ride some sort of snake through a field of chocolate hammers. I guess only time will tell.
In nothing related to anything, Tim and I were laughing about this for quite a while the other day: Family Guy
The thing about living in a city is that people tend to be very social. And by that I mean, it seems everyone has something they want to ask you if you’re walking on the street. Last weekend I was walking to the liquor store and a gentleman pulled up beside me and inquired, “Hey man, you know where I could find a barber? You know, for a guy like me?" (He was an African-American, so naturally I seemed like the right person to ask regarding hair care.)
Then I was out with a nice young lady Saturday – that’s right – and a guy asks us, “Hey, how do I get to Martin Luther King, Jr. street?” I considered acting like Michael from “The Office” and reciting a Chris Rock bit, although mine would be the one about MLK streets throughout the country. I refrained, however. The gal I was with is sweet and knows I have some sort of directional vertigo, so she politely told him. He then let us know he just moved “up here from Minnesota.” Yeah, “up” to Indianapolis from Minnesota. I think I see where the confusion lies.
I then wondered aloud, “Do I have a sign on my chest that says, ‘Hey, ask me something?’” It just gets frustrating when you can’t walk down the street in peace. I’m all about helping people, but on my own time. I like to get lost in thought while walking downtown and think about my day, life, or maybe what Coach Lubbock and the cast of "Just the Ten of Us" are up to these days. I love you Indy, but let’s maintain a silent admiration for each other. What do you say?
Friday was quite an eventful day at work. My name was drawn out of a bowl to win $50 cash. That means my name has been drawn out of every bowl I've dropped it in during the last two months, totalling four delicious prizes of some sort. It's actually a mathematical phenomenon; I'm not quite sure if it's something I'm doing or if fate just owes me for being a lifelong Cubs fan.
After work we visited the Hyatt's new bar, Level One. It's quite fancy for a hotel bar, but the ambience is quite appealing. Might be a smidge expensive for a Friday Happy Hour - you know this is the case when somebody orders pizza and it comes out on one of those fancy rectangular plates like you see in reality cooking shows. However, it's just not the same when you can't hear people screaming things like "wanker" and "button it!" in the kitchen. If the souz chef's self-esteem wasn't trampled whilst making my food, I'm just not interested.
Tonight I'm heading to Oranje and I've been warned by my friend of a "sensory overload" of lights, art and music. I'm not sure if I'll have a seizure or just a migraine by the end of the night, but you can bet I'm looking forward to it.
In totally unrelated news, look out for these cats. I've been saying it for 10 years, but they're definitely up to something.
In the second installment of our monthly Celebrate Laughter segment, we honor the late Mitch Hedberg. Before he passed away in 2005 at the age of 37, Hedberg perfected the one liner and parlayed an abundance of nervous energy (and some drug use) into one great set after another. View these clips and see how this Minnesota native left his mark on the world of comedy during his abbreviated time on earth. (Warning: Some R-rated language.)
Mitch I
Mitch II
Mitch III
This weekend was quite a thrill ride. On Friday night I ended up at Art vs. Art in Fountain Square. This was a delightful event where beatniks judge pieces of art in tournament format, showing their support for each piece by screaming. A decibel meter is used to calculate the winners and the losing art is destroyed on the spot, with a spun wheel determining how it shall pass. Very beautifully bohemian.
We then ended up at a diner, which I remarked was very American – especially since the sign promoted their delicious “hamburgs.” I don’t know why, but I really dig diners. Anyway, at one point I noted that “you won’t find diners in communist Russia.” First of all, Russia is no longer communist (just latently corrupt), and I really have no proof of what sorts of eating establishments they actually have.
Anyway, then I'm pretty sure I asked our waiter if I could have my eggs cooked “medium well” and then inquired as to whether or not I could get sausage for a dollar. The menu clearly indicated it cost $3.15, but I was under the impression that was negotiable for some reason. I ended up eating some outstanding flapjacks and an egg, which was served over-easy in what was clearly an effort to spite me. They were right to do it, however.
I stayed in Saturday and did laundry at Mitch’s while watching “Flight of the Conchords.” Pretty quirky show, but definitely worth the time. Sunday, of course, was dedicated to the NFL, which - after a few brews - I noted to a friend was “my only one true love.” It’s all about perspective, and it’s all about the joys of being in Indy this September. God bless us, every one.
I think my bank teller was hitting on me the other day. She was pretty cute, but naturally I ruined any opportunity by coming off as a curmudgeon.
Teller: Oh, you’re from Wyoming? I know someone from there.
Me: Actually I’m from… wait… really?
Teller: Yeah, I don’t remember what town she’s from though.
Me: Interesting.
Teller: So what are you doing for the concert and big [Colts] game on Thursday?
Me: I’m getting out of downtown as quickly as possible.
Teller: Oh.
Yeah, it’s called momentum, Casanova. Strong work. But look, I love the Colts and I love football. I even love Kelly Clarkson. But I need to be around thousands of drunken Hoosiers at a free concert about as much as I need to be around... well... thousands of sober Hoosiers at a free concert. And that ain’t much. If I hear the phrase “Woooooooo Hooooooo!” one more time, I might actually assault someone. Also, there's only so much feathered hair and acid washed jean shorts a guy can see before he just gets sad inside.
And as far as the bank, the other teller next to this one was pretty cute too and has been kind of flirty with me before. In my head, they had a big fight over me after I left involving mud and pillows and someone had to be fired. Sorry ladies, I can't turn it on and off, you know.
The Colts kick off the season tonight against the Saints and the town is abuzz. I don’t want to say it’s a special day, but Kelly Clarkson is here, people.
So, I was sitting at my desk at work Wednesday morning and wondered what it would be like to have my ears pierced. By the end of my lunch hour, I’d found out. For me, this was quite a step forward, I believe. All my life, I’ve been a chronic overthinker and overanalyze every aspect of life’s minutia to the point where nothing has any meaning or – more importantly – any fun (like I'm doing right now). For example, if I find a gal I like, here’s how it usually goes in my head: “Yeah, I like her. But what if we break up and I’m hurt? What if I break up with her and hurt her? What if it actually works out and we get married? She’ll probably die in a fiery car accident and I’ll be worse off than I was before. It’s pretty much a certainty that one of us will die before the other, which will cause some kind of trauma to the other person. Is it really worth it? What’s the point?” (This, folks, is why people go to therapy.)
It’s also impossible to live in the moment when you’re constantly thinking five steps ahead. There is such a thing as being too prepared, especially when you’re not really prepared at all because most things are out of your control anyhow. (I’m so pensive today.) Anyway, because of this, I’m encouraged I was able to do something so impetuously. I thought about it briefly, decided I wanted to do it, and did it. There’s no telling where this can lead, really.
All told, the best part of all this is that I’m that much closer to looking like George Michael – which I think is really the endgame here. In fact, with Halloween coming up, I’m considering growing out my facial stubble, buying a Miami Vice jacket, grabbing a buddy and going as Wham! Or maybe I’ll just go as Sen. Larry Craig (R-ID). Either way, I guess I’ll need to bring a bathroom stall if I’m going to meet anybody.
Hope everyone’s Labor Day weekend was delightful. Mine was kicked off by a festive work picnic on a lake Friday afternoon. There was boating, fishing, volleyball, basketball and delicious catered meats. Only problem is that I got such a bad sunburn, my face is now peeling and I officially look like a freak. “What? What are you staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a freak before?” I’m planning to scream that at random people while out on my lunch hour today – even people who aren’t looking at me, just to see what they do. Now I know how “The Fly” felt. I think being “The Fly” would be about the worst thing ever - having your bodyparts peel off and get all slimy. However, being Jeff Goldblum would rule. That guy owns. I’ll call that a push.
Yeah, being fair-skinned is not cool. Call it the German-Irish curse. Well, on second thought, I guess the German-Irish curse would be if I uncontrollably drank too much, started fights, ran out of potatoes and frantically waived my hand while screaming about insolence and world domination. And that's just not me - I have plenty of potatoes.
The great contradiction of Labor Day is that you feel like you should be doing something, but then, you feel you owe to those who lobbied for this holiday not to. You know? It’s like, I want to volunteer at the local recycling facility, but I feel compelled to watch a “Queer Eye” marathon on Bravo. That reminds me, I don’t have nearly enough gold trim or sweater vests in my wardrobe. (Yeah, I think this is what the union bosses had in mind.)
In unrelated news, I just won 10 tickets to the Comedy Sportz show for the second time in two months, just by dropping my business card into a bowl. Wow, the Baby Jesus must really love me.
Suggestion: Block off one full Saturday to do nothing other than watch reality television. I recently put down the book I was reading on the Russian revolution to do this and I can see how this mindless drivel can be addicting. I swear, nothing will make you feel better/worse about your life than reality television. Better because you're likely not one of these people, and worse because you've spent a whole day watching reality television on a beautiful summer day - this is likely why people around the world hate us and they're right to do it.
Here's a summary of what I've learned:
* The Hogan family has problems, but they're a cohesive unit and ultimately embody what it truly means to be a family. I think this is what social conservatives now say about "The Simpsons" since it's been on for nearly two decades, even though when it first came on all you read about was how Homer and Bart were terrible role models, and "eat my shorts" was the '90s equivalent of "I [bleeped] your mother." Goes to show what popularity can do to dictate public perception.
* Spencer is a jerk. He's totally going to break Heidi's heart.
* Bret Michaels has a show dedicated to helping him find a soulmate (aka "personal stripper for life"). Honestly, I think VH1 just recruited these women at a NASCAR race in Bristol, turned a fire hose on them and brought them into a studio. Also of note: Lacey is apparently not well liked by the other girls.
* A man named Mystery hosts a show about becoming a pick-up artist. Mystery has a system that apparently sells well. Not bad for a guy who wears eyeliner and huge, fuzzy tophats. He even has keen little abbreviations for things - that's what makes it a "system" and not just some drunk dude trying to get some (e.g. IOI = indicator of interest, opening a set = starting a conversation with a woman, kiss close = what you can do after three IOIs, etc.)
* Corey Haim and Corey Feldman now live together. Feldman plays the role of big brother while Haim plays the role of recovering addict/invalid shut-in. I think a little part of me died while watching this display.
* Scott Baio is 45... and single. I know this because that's the title of the show. I like when they just lay it right out there for you in the title so you don't have to delve much further. You can really do that about any potential reality exposee. "Bea Arthur is aging... and masculine"; "Republican Senators love the Bible... and bathroom stalls"; "Randy Jackson pathetically still says 'da bomb'... and calls people 'dogs'"; "Kittens & Sunshine creator Matt is dead... on the inside."
That's enough of this post. I need to get back to my book... wait, I think this callgirl might just be Bret's type after all. I need to see this. I guess Lenin will have to wait yet another day.
Going from living in rural Wyoming to the downtown of a major city has afforded me an interesting dichotomy of life experiences. Just this week alone I’ve been approached on the streets by disheveled, not quite homeless gentlemen and seen a random act of violence. Nice job, people. Real nice.
On Tuesday, while walking to the bank, this conversation occurred:
Guy: Hey man, got a question for you.
Me: Yeah?
Guy: How do you spell 12?
Me: (pause) What?
Guy: How do you spell 12? T…H….?
Me: No. No, man. It’s T-W-E-L-V-E.
Guy: Oh, alright thanks.
Me: (looking skyward) What the ****?
Then Wednesday while waiting for my morning ride outside my apartment, I get this from a guy holding a loosely rolled cigarette:
Guy: Hey, you got any matches?
Me: (patting my pockets) Um, no.
Guy: You got a light?
Me: No, sorry.
The thing is, the guy was so disgusted with me. He just rolled his eyes and walked away with nothing but disappointment in yours truly. Who are you, my dad? Yeah, sorry, I’m a non-smoker – guilty. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret it. Well, I guess, other than the days I have to walk anywhere and/or not smell like a wet campfire.
Then later on Wednesday, I’m downtown walking back from CVS on my lunch hour and these two guys collide with each other right in front of me – one guy on a bike and the other on foot. The pedestrian starts yelling at the biker. The biker then proceeds to walk up to the guy and punch him in the face. He just hits him right in the face, and the guy falls down. Not like a slap, I mean, he just jacks the guy right in the mug. I’m standing there next to them thinking, “What?” Everybody on the street was just staring at them. It’s not like in junior high when everybody cheers; it’s just sort of pathetic when it’s adults. Seriously, what is wrong with you people?
This is a very ugly world, I hate to say. (See, I’m so distraught by this I’m writing like Yoda.) Seriously though, stuff like this is why people like me drink.
Anyway, hope you all have a good weekend here in our fair capital city – enjoy yourselves, do some good, and try not to get jacked in the face by a random stranger on a bicycle.
Let's speak frankly.
The dating situation just doesn't seem to be happening right now. I'm not really complaining or whining about it, since I don't really care that much, but still. A little feminine companionship might not be the worst thing. It just seems as though the gals (and guys, apparently) who dig me, I'm not real into, and the gals I dig tend to be taken (or lesbians - What can I say? I love flannel).
I was talking with my friends at the Rathskeller the other night and they were saying I should utilize the Internet. But I tell you, I'm a little hesitant. I just hate being in those situations where you go on a date and you've seen a headshot of somebody, but then you get there and you realize that was the absolute best photo that person has ever taken in her life and/or it was orchestrated with backlighting from what had to be the Baby Jesus himself. Then the girl who you thought looked like Mary-Louise Parker turns out looking like, well, like someone else. And you have to sit through the whole dinner and whatever else you're doing thinking, "Man, I'd rather be at home watching Russians jump off of furniture on YouTube."
We then discussed the merits of dating someone with a handicap. It started with the "would you rather have someone who's blind or deaf?" debate. We agreed I should have a blind person because "the funny angle is my thing and I bet I feel hotter than I look." However, Mitch argued that if I had a deaf girl, I'd really have to articulate what I say or sign, which means I'd have to think about it and I might filter out the comments and self-destructive banter that usually aid in my subconscious sabotaging of relationships. All good points.
My boys are saying that if I don't want to do online dating sites, I can go on Myspace and just start looking up random girls in Indy and contacting them. Well, where I'm from, we call that stalking and I'm not super enthused about doing it. At least not in a more discreet manner, as is the normal protocol.
Thing is, I'm not really desperate because I like being single and it's obvious it will take a special lady to hold my interest and tolerate all of my "isms." I just wish the process was easier and you didn't have to approach a woman with some toolish line in a bar like "You come here often?" or "Why do women lie?"
Anyway, back to YouTube - maybe there are some Russians giving dating tips.
By TIM BREWER, Guest Blogger/Gen Con Enthusiast
Bachelor parties create countless memories. I spent four days last week in Colorado, as I hosted a bachelor party for my best friend from high school. Of course, the silicone was bouncing from sofa to pole, but this final freedom party was much, much more than your typical buddy’s one last bash.
I went out a day early to mountain bike just outside of Boulder. If I ever get the guts to move from hick land, I’m going to live there. Microbreweries, fabulous healthy and make-up free woman and a great sense of happiness from the locals will keep Boulder one of the best college towns in the country.
After Boulder, I took a bus to Denver to meet up with nine guys ready to punish their livers. We did a couple rounds of bowling, hit a local pub and made our way to Coors Field to watch the Cubs/Rockies game. There was an older guy sitting in front of us by himself with his Rockies doll. He danced with his doll and talked to it like Matt talks to his sock puppet, Luther. There was a reason why this guy was sitting by himself. He danced and talked to a doll the entire night. I even think he disciplined the doll once. Maybe that’s standard behavior in the Denver altitude.
I arranged a drunk bus for us the next morning to take us to Fort Collins to tour New Belgium Brewing Company, Odell Brewing and Coopersmith’s Brewing. Our buddy Mike could barely function since he was so hungover. Naturally, we teased him the entire time with bologna and syrup jokes. New Belgium Brewing’s tour and sampling is the best thing since sliced George Bush.
Later that night we went to another Cubs/Rockies game. And, wait for it… we hit two strip joints - I mean, gentlemen’s clubs, because only classy, well-behaved gentlemen go to these neon-colored, glittery halls of $9 beers. I rarely go to these places, so I see it as a learning experience when I go once every four years. I love the names at the clubs – Bambi, Angel, Destiny, Star, Kitty, Candy, Crystal, Cherry and Gladys. Ok, maybe not Gladys, but I think it’s a requirement to go by one of the first eight. We ended the evening by paying for a shower for our bachelor. He put on board shirts and was "Barbasoled" by two "ladies" in front of the entire club for 10 minutes. Half of my brain’s memory is used up with mind photos from this head-shaking incident.
Colorado, you made quite an impression on me. The ladies of Colorado are quite fine, too. To my pleasure, they refrain from state fair food. But Angel, you can drink all of the fried Pepsi you want, in this cowboy's opinion.
Do you ever get involved in a conversation with somebody who stares at you long after your interaction with them is over? Does it creep you out?
I recently had lunch with somebody who did this. He’s like: “Hey, how ‘bout this weather? Pretty hot, huh?” So I’m like “Yeah, it's August, captain.” But then I look down and start eating my pasta dish, and look up and, sure enough, this cat is still looking at me. He kept doing that throughout the meal to the point where I could feel his crazy eyes burning into the top of my skull as I ate. And I’m thinking, “What the hell, man?"
After I looked up, I just quickly looked back down in horror. But I’ve decided if it happens again, I’m just going to start crowing at him like a pterodactyl. (I realize I could have used any flying animal there, but I thought it’d be funnier to use pterodactyl because it’s extinct and is spelled silly… sillily… humorously). I suppose making a loud, shrill donkey noise would work, too: "Eeeeeeaaaaawwwww!"
But why do people do crazy stuff like this? It drives me nuts. I had a friend in college (I don't think he reads this) who gave people weird looks when he drank too much, but at least that was alcohol-induced. Actually, he'd say some pretty raunchy things to women, too. Thing is, we never knew it. We'd hear about it at some party months later:
Girl: "Hey, do you know what (your friend) said to my roomate?"
Me: "No, what?"
Girl: (whisper)
Me: "Oh my Lord! No. No! Oh, sweet Moses. Is that even possible? Can one person physically do that to another person? Oh my heavens! I mean, the sheer physics of that are so daunting! No! I feel so badly that you were exposed to the mental visions that must have invoked (or possibly evoked, I don't know the difference). Can I do your dishes or something? Here, let me give you money..."
Needless to say, we had to do a lot of PR patchwork around our apartment complex. Anywaaaay...
CLASS PARTICIPATION TIME: If you have crazy things you wished people didn’t do (like spit when they talk, use the word “ain’t,” or poison your pets), feel free to post a comment about their actions on this blog and explain why it burns you up.
I'm pretty much a downtown Indy guy now. On any given weekend, I can be found doing my thing at the following places: Old Point Tavern, The Rathskeller, The Chatterbox, English Ivy's (yeah, it's a gay bar, but hey, it's next to my place so that trumps all other factors. It also gives me a chance to get caught up on the latest fashions, hair styles, and Katie Couric gossip).
Anyway, Tim has a friend who's going through a situation so we thought we'd take him out on the town Saturday. I should preface this with this ridiculous anecdote, however: A while back Tim came up with fake names for he and I when we go out. Mind you, I'm not sure what this accomplishes but aliases can be practical and one should always have one. And obviously, they have to be ridiculous, so I'm known as "Steven Tuesday" and his moniker is "Randy Butterscotch." Are we tools? Yes, but in our defense, we were tools long before this. Plus, these names make me laugh every time we discuss them. So I happened to be taking a shower one day and a third name came to me that we can use for anyone else who wants to join our bachelor downtown posse. That name? "Marley Coriander." It's so ridiculous I can't stop thinking about it. Isn't it funny how great ideas seem to hit you in the shower of all places? I think the best one I've ever gotten in there was probably "Hey Matt, you should probably think about cleaning yourself."
Well, our goal of the evening was to cheer up Tim's friend. We had an OK time, but the band at the biergarten was pretty brutal so we just kind of made fun of them the whole time. Oh, and we also looked at attractive women but ultimately decided not to talk to them. So finally, after a few beers and some heartfelt discussion on life, relationships, and my contention that optimism only lets you down, his newly single friend asks, "My God, is this what I have to look forward to?"
After much debate, we decided the answer - sadly - is "yes."
So pull up a stool Marley; it doesn't get much better than this.
(Sorry about the lack of postage Thursday, but I didn't have cable access until the nice gentleman hooked it up this morning.)
The move went as well as could be expected Monday; I just need to pick up a few items to make it more livable. Nothing like cooking an entire chicken sausage in the oven and then realizing you don’t have any oven mitts. I won’t lie – there’s been blistering.
Thanks to Mitch for helping me. What a true, special friend he is. And handsome, too.
Here are some key lines from the move:
“I’m going to park in the street. If they honk at me, somebody’s getting cut.” - Matt
“(while lifting a desk up stairs) Watch out, it will go in your face… that’s what she said. (That’s not even funny but we laughed for 1.5 minutes. Oh, thank you comic relief.) - Matt
“Your neighbors are (freaking) weird.” – Mitch
“I’m going to have to boil this couch.” - Matt
“Just leave the van door open. If somebody steals it we won’t have to carry it in.” – Matt
“Goodbye security deposit. (There was some damage to the hallway leading up to my place. But I’m hoping that will be deemed a neutral area and I can blame it on my neighbor.)” – Mitch
“(while trying to maneuver my couch up a narrow stair case) This could not be going worse.” – Matt
Mitch: You’re living in the Aurora?
Matt: No, it’s called the Apollo.
Mitch: It says “Aurora” right above the building.
Matt: No, it’s the Apollo.
Mitch: Are you sure?
Matt: I know where I live, dude.
Mitch: OK
Matt: Why does it say “Aurora” over the door, though?
Mitch: That’s what I’m saying.
Matt: They told me it was the Apollo… lies.
Actually, I’m sure Mitch had more quality comments but I just wasn’t paying that close of attention, since this was mostly about me.
And then Tuesday night I became aware of the world of Costco. First of all, I think if you just bought gas there it would more than make up for the cost of membership. It’s quite a deal. Only problem is I have a very small kitchen and no storage space. Fortunately I’m a fast eater. Still, you have to love a place that allows you to buy meat, beer, a couch and a trampoline all in one visit. It’s beautiful.
We're going to start a new monthly series here on K & S where we celebrate laughter by featuring some of my favorite stand-up comedians. Since the main point of my blog is to act as some kind of humorist, I'd like to use this segment to celebrate the artform of comedy and mainly to guarantee both of my readers get at least one laugh each month. Let's face it, life blows at least half of the time so some days laughter is all we have. This is also the part of the month where I try not to make this blog about me in an effort to surrender my ego (although telling you that is probably drawing more attention to me, which is counter-productive. It would probably be better just to not mention me at all. So yeah, just disregard this whole diatribe about myself). It's all very Buddhist in nature and I'm told this should cleanse me in some way. Yet I still feel dirty. So very, very dirty.
Anyhow, today we're featuring one of my favorite guys going right now, Zach Galifianakis. You might have seen him in the movie "Out Cold," and... um... quite possibly some other stuff. So without further ado:
On Conan
Give it time, this gets funny in the second half
Versus a reality show heckler (BEWARE: vulgar language)
Stay tuned for the September segment, where we'll feature the stylish, stoned out one-liners of the late, great Mitch Hedberg.
