Next Time I'm Just Going to the Bar

So today was supposed to be a pretty productive snow day, with some awesome - read shitty - Sci Fi peppered in for good measure. I was planning on starting off the day geeking out on Flash Gordon, mission accomplished. Then I was gonna get to work on a little reading and some other nagging projects. I thought this would be a much better way to spend the day than going to the bar like any healthy, red-blooded real American.

I got some reading done and got a bit accomplished, but then I figured out how to get my webcam to work on chatroulette.com. Chatroulette being a site that instantly matches you with strangers on web cams around the world. You know, so you can dialogue with someone on the other side of the globe about social issues and the like. I guess that was their intent. Maybe. What you mostly end up seeing is cock. Lots and lots of cock. Sweet mother of christ. Some important lessons were learned, tears were shed and I really need a hug and a shower now.

But, there was learning about the glorious tapestry of humanity to be had. Here's what I learnt:

• A head of lettuce is a perfectly acceptable masturbatory supplement.
  
• Doods love to jerk it. Love. It.
  
• Seriously. I used to think I was into the porn a bit too much, but my god I am a prude.
  
• There are some sad and very lonely men out there.
  
• Goatse. Remember goatse? Got to see that awesomeness again.
  
• Weirdos on the internet don't like me. Sad face. Oh wait this is good.
  

I will most definitely get drunk and go on chatroulette again. And god forbid I ever start dabbling in weed again, I'll be over that shit. But I'll probably avoid it for a while. I mean, it's only gonna be around for another week, max, before someone ends up killing someone on it and it gets shut down.

Finally

Proof that The Big Bang Theory is the least funny show. ever.

Compounding Anxiety

If you've known me for, like, five minutes, you probably know that I'm totally unsatisfied professionally. You probably also know that I recently sent out a shitload of grad school apps. You may further know that I'm now freaking out waiting for those answers to roll in.

I don't know if it's because my fucking head felt like it was going to explode tonight, but I've decided to allay that anxiety by, well, compounding it. I dug out the old Writer's Market and started digging through literary magazines that accept "experimental" work. I'm told this is what my stuff would fall under. Tonight, I submitted online what, I think, is my best work to about five publications. I'll submit to about five more tomorrow night and so on until I'm through every market that might take my work. Then I'll plow through the publications that only take hard copy manuscripts. Then, I'm gonna go through again, submitting my second best work, until I know, one way or another if I'm wasting my time.

Here's to sore throat induced freak outs!

An Open Letter to the Parents of Philadelphia

Dear Parents of Philadelphia,

You all have lost your damn minds. I'm talking, of course, about strollers here. These things are out of control. I saw one the other day with a full suspension, cup holders and upholstery made of fine corinthian leather. I understand the keeping up with the Joneses arms race that your life becomes when you finally give up and decide to start repeating all the mistakes your parents made - even though you've been swearing since you're 12 that you won't. And oh yeah, just in case you were wondering, when we aren't masturbating while crying or cruising the internet for people to bone at 3 a.m., all us single, childless people are having a good laugh at you.

I also understand that you need a sturdier stroller for the city. The streets of Philadelphia are not smooth, as we all know. Heaven forbid little Caden or Dyylan spill his $9 raw, organic milk smoothie while you skirt from Whole Foods over to Anthropologie to buy a sexy little outfit in a vain attempt to jumpstart the old sex life. Why bother, when you know you're gonna pass out in it anyway? Also, I'm pretty sure monied white folks are off the names that aren't really names now that poor white people have picked up on it. I think y'all are back on classic names at the moment; so substitute Caden and Dyylan with Thomas or Nathaniel.

The two people who read this estimable blog are probably wondering why a guy who is, let's face it, the male version of a cat lady would give a flying fuck about such a thing. Well, the thing is, I have to walk these sidewalks and I often run on them. There is nothing more frustrating than running the few blocks to the river trail and getting locked in behind some asshole who's stroller takes up the entire fucking block. These people think that because there's "precious cargo" aboard their push-powered hummer prams that they don't have to yield to pedestrians in the slightest. Nope, they are free to go about their day blocking up the entire sidewalk with their retarded indulgence. Seriously, you'll never get caught up behind one of these rickety bitches:

That kid looks just as happy as any third-generation trustafarian rolling about in a $900 stroller with anti-lock brakes and satellite radio. Myself, and everyone I know, were pushed around in these things in the late seventies. We came out just fine. Yeah, just fine.

A Quick Rant

So, I get to work with some interesting people. Most of them are strong evidence in the case against natural selection. Frankly if such a thing existed, most of them wouldn't have survived beyond their teens. One of my favorites, and a shining example of all things wonderful about my workplace, is a spunky gal who goes by the self-ascribed nickname of Bootsy*.

She stole my heart when she threw a party a couple years ago. The party flier was a thing of beauty. It featured sexy glamour shots of the host and asked attendees to bring "donations". The donations part is funny because this wasn't a fundraiser. Well, it wasn't a fundraiser for anything other than Bootsy. I can't really express how awesome this flier was. I should have scanned it and started a web site devoted to this flier. I should have gotten it airbrushed onto a license plate for the car I don't own and gotten it tattooed on my ass. It was that good.

I'm writing about Bootsy today because one of my favorite quotes from her is the following:

"Oh, I am a personal trainer. I do it out of my house."

Now, I guess I should mention that Bootsy is a good 20 pounds over weight. And not 20 pounds over some crazy bullshit ideal of a rail-thin woman. She's 20 pounds over what a healthy person of her age should probably weigh. Also, as a personal trainer, she makes some interesting food choices. Today, I watched her make a tuna salad (I could smell the spackle of mayonnaise) sandwich on Wonderbread. This thing was piled high with arterie clogging goodness. I guess that wouldn't have been so bad, but 20 minutes later when I went back into the lunch room she was preparing another vile sandwich.

Bootsy, my hat is off to you, your flier and your misguided thoughts on health and nutrition.











*I changed this just a bit for obvious reasons, and because I'm not 100% sure what the actual nickname is.