Working Out (My Writing)

I just started taking this intensive personal essay writing class (because I love to write and I love to talk about myself- it makes sense). I need to post more so I'm just gonna throw some of the stuff from class on this bad boy. Below is the VERY first exercise we did in which our instructor throws out a phrase and we run with it. Not my finest hour but what the heck. Enjoy this sucka...

On a cool day in March of 1997, I went to see Howard Stern's Private Parts.

In the language of Spies Like Us, Chevy Chase and Dan Akroyd gave underrated performances. Was it their best work? No, but there's little better than vegging on your couch on a cold Saturday, eating a good sandwich and watching that flick.

A bowl of clues under your bed for your parents to know you were doing something you weren't supposed to. Could I have gotten rid of them?

She threw stones across the water to make them jump, I've seen this done a million times but never as sensually. The stones kept skippin' and I kept lookin'.

A morbid fear of dancing and what do I do? A dance split. At my 10 year reunion. And I split my pants. And what was my solution for saving myself? I took my pants off.

Somewhere in the middle of the 3rd movement I fell asleep. I didn't want to, I wanted to give the impression that I cared, that my sensibilities were sophisticated enough. Really, I'd rather be at a Springsteen concert.

A magnesium flare in the distance, I don't even really know what this means. But what could it be? I guess it is bright and shiny. It would probably look pretty cool in the wilderness at least.

Green ribbons are what I received when I was a runner- I don't know where they are anymore.

What I forgot to say was really how much being here means to me. It means I am taking steps, taking control of my own destiny, not just playing it safe. Putting it out there to be judged- it's scary but okay.

So there you have it. I re-read what I wrote and if I were these strangers in my class I would gather that I am: A Baba Booey-loving, pop culture obsessed man-child who still worries about his parents knowing about the naughty things he's doing. Furthermore, I am horny, bad at problem solving, have never been outside of Jersey, am retarded and can't get past my glory days. Plus, I am embarrassingly corny and self-conscious. This is not totally true (but to an extent it is) but it just dawned on me that there's 15 people now that probably think I am a douche. Oof, it's gonna be a long semester.

Stolen Memories: Rickey Makes The Hall

They announced today that Rickey Henderson has made the Hall of Fame, on his first year of eligibility to boot. I couldn't be happier. The man only played for the Yankees for four seasons (1985-1989) but there was something very important about his first year in New York: it was also the first year I fell in love with baseball.

The summer of 1985 was monumental for me: I started to understand the great game of baseball, had my first catch with my dad (I even got to use his original glove from the 50s-and I ended this important milestone by throwing the ball right into his chest) and went to my first Yankee game. It was August and my dad and I drove up to the Bronx (1985 Bronx, not now Bronx, it had literally just stopped burning). As we got on the road and closer to the Stadium, I could see we were in a galaxy most definitely far away from the 'burbs, and I loved it. The graffiti, the squeegee guys and the beauty underneath the urban grime, I was drawn right to it. When you walk up to it for the first time, it is striking and it really is an experience. But even more so is when you step inside The House That Ruth Built. I'll never forget being blown away as my dad pointed to the field and talked about the legends he saw play there like The Mick and so many others. I was in my element and looking at my dad's face, certain he was reliving the first time he did this with his own father, I knew he was too.
Rickey didn't have the game highlight (though he did go 2-3 with a double, 2 runs and a stolen base), that honor goes to Ken Griffey, Sr. The man broke his arm while extending it over the left field wall for what otherwise definitely would have been a home run ball. Rickey wasn't even my favorite player of that era (he's 3rd behind Don Mattingly and Dave Winfield). Even so, that day no. 24 was put into the hero category. Donnie Baseball was the guy that everyone wanted to be, the All-American player and Winfield was the suave power hitter, but Rickey had something like NOBODY else- speed (that and the same name as my brother, which always drove me nuts because I'd missed Graig Nettles by like five years). It was a blast to see him steal base after base after base and fool the pitcher every single time. On the rare occasion in Little League that I did reach base (and even when I play softball now), I'm Rickey Henderson. I am the exact opposite of All-American (I don't shave enough to qualify) and suave- we'll I'd rather just move on. But I can run and I can run fast. I'd step off of 1st, crouch in the set position and take off, without a thought of what I was leaving behind. I'd even push my helmet towards the top of my head so it would be more susceptible to falling off, like I'd seen happen with Rickey (still a cool move). Rickey was cocky and a bit of a hot shot and THAT'S what I wanted to be.

Henderson's going into the Hall but it was only a couple of years ago that he was playing in the Independent League for the Newark Bears, ready to get back to the league that he took by storm with his ability and speed. When all is said and done, I think that's what all of us aspire to be- no matter how much we've accomplished, we don't give up on ourselves and strive for more, and we do so going at full speed. Congrats, Rickey.

Thoughts On The Wrestler

I'm a guy from New Jersey who loves comedy and was a teenager in the 1990s so it's obvious I am a Kevin Smith fanatic. To me, specifically the Jersey Trilogy (Clerks, Mall Rats, Chasing Amy) perfectly captured what it was like to be a young person person of my hood just trying to figure it all out ( and to sprinkle that message with dick and fart jokes certainly got my attention). Though his later films don't always hit me on the same level as the others, I'll still catch anything Smith does. Still, it has been a long while since I've connected to a story out of the Garden State. That is, until I saw The Wrestler.

In every review I've read or heard, every critic talks about Mickey Rourke's brilliant performance and the resurrection of Mickey Rourke. This is absolutely 100% true (though I thought the guy came back almost 4 years ago in Sin City and Hollywood comebacks confuse me in general anyway). What nobody seemed to mention though is the fact that NO MOVIE EVER has captured my beloved state the way The Wrestler has. Not only does Bruce contribute a brilliant track to it, but this movie really is the cinematic version of a Springsteen song (I guess making Kevin Smith Jon Bon Jovi, which is not a bad thing at all). Oddly enough, director Darren Aronofsky grew up in Brooklyn and although many of us Jersey-ites come from or have family from Brooklyn, we would never expect someone from there to perfectly capture our little universe. The ONE thing in the movie that bothered me is that Marisa Tomei's character wanted to move from Elizabeth to Trenton, simply because the schools are better. If you're from a hundred miles outside of Trenton you know this is ridiculous because I am sorry, but the once shining city and current state capital is, with a few exceptions (like the burger joint Rossi's), is a total dump. A lot of Trenton kids are bussed to Hamilton schools (where my mom lives). Trenton is so bad that during gang initiation week, Hamilton residents are urged to stay inside as aspiring members are ordered to murder people. If this lady is trying to escape Elizabeth for some sort of paradise in Trenton, she's a mental patient and unfit to be a mother.

Everything else in The Wrestler is 100% spot on. It showed a New Jersey that was rarely if ever shown on The Sopranos. It showed the trailer parks, just out of reach from the McMansions. It showed the VFW halls and 'roid gyms where the non-WWE wrestlers can be found. Like the Sopranos, it showed Asbury Park, but it showed it in a truer light: as a beauty that once was that might be once again.

The Wrestler also had characters that I know. For example, I know guys eerily similar to Mickey Rourke's character, Randy "The Ram" Robinson. One guy is in a profession quite similar to The Ram's. When I knew him, his day job was doing random moving gigs and he had simple living conditions and a girlfriend that I was certain was only around to take advantage of him. He also might have been "special." Regardless, he was a gentle giant who it seemed only really fit in when he was in his world, on the stage. Aside from him, when I was a bartender (and at a real bar, not one of these fancy Manhattan places), I came across many men who were well past their glory days but somehow were able to relive them night after night on that bar stool. It was sad because you could see that they had been beat around by life- but when they told their war stories you still saw something in them.

I also knew Tomei's character, Cassidey the stripper. This woman was beautiful, sexy, smart and just amazing. I fell in love with her every time I saw her. But she was 40 and I somehow sensed that she felt like she was stuck and her days using her body were coming to an end. Her heyday was the 1980s and the 80s were long gone. Much like Asbury Park yes, she had seen better days, but there was still beauty to be seen. On top of that, she had a child to worry about at home and I could see balancing her two worlds was tiring, to say the least. I think a lot about her and hope that she hasn't given up the good fight.

At the end of the film, Springsteen's The Wrestler plays over the credits. It's lyrics are beautiful but realistic and, combined with the content of the movie, it hits hard. When Bruce sings, "These things that have comforted me, I drive away/This place that is my home I cannot stay/My only faith's in the broken bones and bruises I display," he's not describing a happy ending. All of the characters I've met over the years, I am not sure what there ending will be, but here's to hoping that, like The Ram, they find their glory again, even if it's just one more time.

Grandma Is Not A Pet: A Note On The Grandparent/Grandchild Relationship

When you are a child, before you hit puberty, more often than not your parents are almost untouchable when it comes to being the king/queen of your universe. They're big, strong and know everything about anything. The only ones better than them are their parents because they're even wiser and don't yell at you, they just give you candy and presents and tell you how great you are. As a kid, the ideal weekend is spent at grandma's. The dynamic changes unfortunately, usually beginning around high school or for me, college. You get a license, you have classes, the excuses start to build up until one day, you find yourself in the workforce and barely initiating contact with these people. It gets so bad that your parents call to remind you to call them. This is when things are really bad because now poor grandma is reduced to pet-like conditions and she's now on what's equivalent of a walking/feeding schedule. The next step is chasing after Nana with a pooper scooper.

Sadly, I am guilty of such behavior (not the pooper scooper thing, the not calling thing). It's not for lack of love- I ADORE my Mom Mom (yes I still call her that). But again, life happens and you're so wrapped up in your own BS, everything gets pushed aside. This past weekend, in the spirit of Christmas, I went to make things right and not only called grandma, I visited her. Results? Brilliant. Mom Mom is an amazing woman because not only was she nothing but sweet she fed me, twice! Better yet, I haven't had that much fun just talking to someone in I don't even know how long. Because, unlike younger folks, your elders have no filter. They're retired, they're achy and they're just dying to tell you what they think. And it's worth it! Mom Mom is smart and funny and has seen some shit in her day- I am embarrassed that I'm on here blogging about my crap- she should be doing it.

What have I learned? Call Grandma. Nowhere else can you hear juicy gossip, get history lessons and eat lasagna all at the same time.

When Stereotypes Go Bad

I'm a liberal guy. I've dated all races, embrace all cultures and voted for Barack Obama. I try not judge anybody. Howwever, stereotypes don't just pop out from thin air. For example, I am Italian and unfortunately some of us do in fact have blow outs, do steroids and fist pump at some club in Sayerville. There's an old stereotype that those of Asian descent are not good drivers- sure enough, my cousin once drove behind a guy that was eating rice with chop sticks while steering a Camry. As it turns out, Avenue Q was correct: everyone is, in fact, a little racist. On a regular basis, I find myself shaking my head in disgust as I see an individual demonstrate the biggest stereotypes of their particular background. Most recently, it was a Japanese woman with a camera on a very crowded 5th ave.

In addition to bizarre game shows and Anime, the Japanese are very well known for taking picture of everything while visiting America (Gung Ho and those Big Apple bus tours especially come to mind). Yesterday, as I was walking with my family on the way back from an all too crowded Rockefeller Center, I noticed this little kid, no older than 9, carrying a stack of hot pretzels up to his chin over to his dad, a street vendor. He was being followed by a wide-grinning, middle-aged Japanese lady who was incessantly snapping photos of him. Only this was not an adorable youngster helping his old man provide for his family, this was a little person/midget with a Clark Gable mustache working his job. In my eyes, he went from being a Kodak moment to being a guy who probably gets stared at around the clock, so I went about my business. Japanese lady with the camera didn't see it my way. This horrible woman literally followed this poor gentleman FOR BLOCKS and wouldn't stop snapping pics- it was on par with the paparazzi at it's worst. I am not a religious man so my moral barometer doesn't reach far, but I do live by some principles. One of them is to not harass midgets who sell pretzels. This despicable lady so enraged me that if you were on that street yesterday at around 3:45 you saw a little person being followed by an inconsiderate Japanese lady with a camera, followed by a screaming white dude trying to take pictures of this jerk to see how she felt being harassed. The only problem was that she fit into another Japanese stereotype: the woman had the reflexes and speed of her ninja ancestors. I run 5 days a week and I had no chance of catching her.

This story is interesting to me for three reasons: One, it argues the point that stereotypes exist for a reason, two, it shows how awful people can be yet third, the visual of a little person with a dapper mustache being chased by a stereotype is the classic example of "only in New York." I am about to enter my thirties- this is when a lot of people start to loosen their grip on their liberal ideals. I don't want to be one of those people but I find myself becoming just slightly more judgmental than I used to be. If next time I'm driving and the car in front of me is going 5mph and weaving all over the road, I will most likely assume it is the Japanese camera lady and curse her. I will judge her awful auto-handling skills and continue to obsess over her lack of compassion for the human condition. But then I will giggle to myself and thank her for giving me a classic New York experience. I love you and hate you, walking stereotype lady, be well.

It's Gotta Be The Shoes: Bush Finally Gets It Right

An angry Iraqi journalist covering a surprise Baghdad press conference today by George Bush threw a shoe at the outgoing president and yelled, "This is a farewell kiss, you dog!" When the melee calmed down Bush responded, "So what if a guy threw his shoe at me?" For the first time in his 8 years in office, I agree with the W. Someone threw a shoe at George Bush, who cares?

A stolen election, war on false pretenses, Katrina, Karl Rove and a giant economic crisis and the guy ONLY got 2 size 10 shoes thrown at his head. Not a bad deal at all. I don't understand why the man was even apprehended. If anything, why didn't we think of this years ago? Using shoes as a threat not an uncommon reaction to bad behavior if a child displeases their parent, we should apply the same set of rules to our elected officials. Hey Bush, your doctrine is shit, how would you like my shoe right up your ass? Governor Blagojevich, the senate is not for sale. You better hope I don't catch you, I'll smack you with my shoe. It doesn't have to be anything ultraviolent but just imagine the real violent threats against our presidents going down if we were all promised a sneaker toss apiece for every screw up? There would be a line from Sacramento to DC in anticipation of teaching a lesson to "The Man" but at the end of it, we all move on. So, corrupt officials watch it man, I've got some size 13 Nikes and I'm not afraid to use them.

Worst Job Ever

I went out with some work friends last night for some good old karaoke. We were all having a blast. Sake, sushi and Phil Collins. Amazing. As I sang my heart out to Hotel California, I was on top of the world. Then I sat down and as someone was belting out Ice, Ice Baby I saw it. I looked away from the scene of the crime and my eyes were fixed on the sushi chef- and he looked like he wanted to kill himself.

Can you imagine? When we go do karaoke, yeah most of it's bad, but it's just a wacky experience. But to be that sushi chef? He's probably constantly thinking about his buddy who's got a sweet gig doing hibachi over at Shogun meanwhile, this poor bastard's limited to making California Rolls for some ass to wolf down in between ironic renditions of Ace of Base songs. So, next time you're at a karaoke joint selecting a song, think of this guy:

The Day I Realized Coldplay Sucks

I remember the first time I was made aware of Coldplay- it was Christmas Eve 2000 and the brand-spanking new MTV2 (when the channel still played music, long after MTV stopped) was playing Yellow on a loop. I wouldn't liken it to the first time my father heard the Beatles but it was one of those moments where I knew I was going to love these guys and I knew they were going to be a gigantic force in music. Their debut album, Parachutes and especially their sophomore effort, A Rush Of Blood To The Head became my own sort of, to borrow from another writer, lifestyle music. Sex, writing, thinking, much of it was done to Coldplay and I don't know many bands that can pull that same kind of work. When X&Y came out three years ago it didn't have the same effect on me but one song off the album (Talk) blew me away so much so that I included it on every play list I had. I even caught their show and it was the highlight of the summer (the combination music and especially light show made for the ultimate in pot brownie experiences). Three years later, the band released their big comeback, Viva La Vida Or Death And All His Friends. Maybe I am not the same person I was three years ago or maybe it's Gwyneth Paltrow but I barely gave a shit that they were making new music. A co-worker gave me a leaked version of the album and it was alright. The press was making a big thing of how brilliant the album was, how much Coldplay had grown, front man Chris Martin's improved lyrics as well as the new register his voice had found. Honestly, I didn't get any of it. If there was one saving grace for the album it was their lead single, Viva La Vida. The strings were different and that melody with those chord changes were just so mesmerizing. The more I heard the song (especially when it was featured on the series premiere of the new 90210, which will jazz up any tune) the more it became yet another Coldplay song to be a soundtrack to my life.

As we came to find the other day, it was actually a Joe Satriani song that was a soundtrack to my life. Or allegedly, but come on, they did it. Have you heard the Satriani track? It's ridiculous. I've heard that Coldplay has done this before (and really, it's no secret that they've always wanted to be Radiohead) but crap this is just lazy. It's like they didn't even try to cover it up (but of course they deny it). The thing that really bothers me about it the most is that, though Satriani I am sure is doing well for himself, his success (and bank account) doesn't even come close to that of Chris Martin and company. It makes sense, they're pop artists and he's an electric guitar virtuoso who does instrumentals. But it's just another reminder that the TRUE good stuff is hard to find in this country of ours. Why? Because we as a people truly have shitty taste. If you want to find a truly unique song on the regular radio you have to turn your dial all the way to the left (where the reception is usually terrible anyway). If you want to watch something of substance on the TV you're pretty much limited to PBS and a few other exceptions. Movies? Unless you live in a major city, you're usually screwed. We got too greedy. At some point it became all about the money. I am a realist with touches of hippie-dom but I know we all gots to get paid. Still, there needs to be a balance. Until then, this world is going to be overrun with assholes who have sex with Gwyneth Paltrow and really, who wants that?

Shout out to Joe Satriani:
http://www.satriani.com/2004/

When Gay Guys Don't Attack...

WARNING: THE LANGUAGE IN THE ESSAY BELOW IS AT TIMES, ATROCIOUS

I remember the first time I was hit on by a guy. It was freshman year of college (Oh how unique. Someone's first heavy exposure to homosexuality was his 1st semester of higher learning. Wow I lack originality). There was this guy Devin who looked like if Biz Markie ate Wesley Snipes in Demolition Man and, being that I was the only guy at a Catholic university that didn't want to create a hate crime against him, he became very friendly towards me and was always around. He was a nice enough guy but when he wouldn't lay off the idea that I should hang out with him at Woody's, Philadelphia's premiere gay dance club, I knew I had to cut it off. I wasn't offended that the dude was into my shit, but I didn't appreciate how flattering it was either.

I remember the time this girl I was trying to have sex with took me to this gay bar on Christopher St (they had 2 for 1 Margaritas, hoogah!) and we were the only two straight people in the joint. She had just given me this adorable haircut and with my striped polo shirt and backpack I was the epitome of a super twink. I swear every man in there was giving me the f-me eyes something fierce and, being that they had balls, we thought it best that we go someplace straight (I wound up taking her to a BBQ joint- am I insecure or what? I might as well have whipped out a Playboy and demanded we watch Sports Center). Again, I was not offended that the boys wanted to be in my shit, but I didn't appreciate it.

Last night, this gay guy wanted to F my friend and I was offended that the dude had absolutely zero interest in my shit and I certainly DID NOT appreciate it. We were out for burgers and beers for a former co-worker's birthday and there was this guy, we'll call him Carl (because that was his name- anonymity is for bitches) and he was older than most of us by a good 10 years. Even more of an age difference was the one between him and my good pal Sean, a young, fresh blue-eyed whippersnapper. I arrived a little late so I missed the initial introductions of the evening but when I arrived and sat in between Sean and Carl, I found our new friend to be a pleasant enough gentleman, perhaps even too polite. I was talking comedy with Sean when, not wanting to be rude to Carl, I included him. After awhile, I noticed that I was slowly being separated from the conversation. Carl was making less and less of an effort into being interested in talking to me. Eventually I came to the conclusion that A) Carl was gay B) Carl would have liked his meal way better if could have eaten it off of Sean's pink nipples and C) Carl saw me nothing more as a cock block to his night of ecstasy with my friend Sean (who, by the way, is very, very straight).

Admittedly, though my weiner might only desire strictly hetero contact, my ego could give two shits who or what strokes it. But I promise, this is not what bothered me about Carl. No sir, I thought Carl was a complete ass because of the way he handled himself in trying to get some Pennsylvania-bred man meat. First off, as I stated earlier the guy completely blocked me out of the situation. That's not how you pick up a dude, especially if he's straight. If Carl was smart he would have been so nice to me and so unbelievably charming that when Sean turned to me and said, "I think this guy wants to bang me" I would be so impressed that I would at least encourage him to allow a handy.

My next beef with Carl was this guy was sooooo full of himself, it was disgusting how much he bragged about his awesomeness. He spoke as if he was some enlightened guru as he warned us of the dangers of pharmaceutical drugs (and we later learned the guy was a recovering crackhead). He talked shit on my beloved Jersey and told us about the importance of being well-traveled (this from a guy who lived in Indianapolis by choice). Carl also bragged about how much money he has, his homes in Miami beach and Connecticut, his investments and his boat. Meanwhile, that piece of shit stiffed us on the bill by a lot of money! Also, for being so enlightened and having such a command of this world, Carl wouldn't stop bitching about his hamburger and how dry it was. Stupid, do you think Buddha would have complained like that? Hell, no. At most, the true enlightened one would have asked for a side of mayo but he would have had his burger like a man. It wasn't even dry, it was the best goddamn burger I've had in months.

As someone who has done some stand up comedy, what I found most offensive was when, with terrible delivery, Carl told Sean that he was in his brother's Jeep the other day and blew a speaker. After a pause he continued, "Yeah, but he was a motivational speaker so I felt pretty positive about it." After another pause, this one awkward, Carl let us know it was just a joke. That's when I informed him that I knew it was a joke because I remember when Doug Stanhope told it 10 years ago. THAT PRICK TRIED TO PASS OF AN OBSCURE JOKE BY COMEDIAN DOUG STANHOPE AS HIS OWN! Carl tried to recover by suggesting Stanhope stole it from someone else, but the damage was done. He also tried to brag about seeing the live performance of the CD from which he stole the joke and I'm sorry but, with all due respect to Mr. Stanhope, Sicko isn't exactly Live At Leeds.

Finally, for all his cockiness and bullshit, Carl isn't even good looking. He had these pathetic 5 strands of hair on his head, pale and greasy skin and this little bird mouth. He looked like a wet little chicklet just popping out of it's egg (if the chicklet had pleated pants and Lisa Loeb glasses). Now, I don't have a picture of Carl but if i did, it would look something like this:





In closing, I would just like to say Fuck You Carl, and Sean, I hope you'll consider even just one night of anonymous gay sex just to spite this fraudulent piece of shit.

Songs Good To Bone To...

Music to me is everything. Not a musician myself (Hot Cross Buns on the recorder and trying to impress a chick with a little Crash Into Me on the acoustic in my dorm hallway frosh year doesn’t quite equate to a career), I instead have taken great pride in my superior knowledge and outstanding collection to everything from Bruce to Public Enemy to Miles Davis to The Clash. I am also a master at the play list, a skill I most definitely picked up from my dad. The long car trips to Florida with my most dysfunctional family surely would have resulted in murder or at the very least emancipation were it not for brilliant transitions from Little Feat’s Dixie Chicken to Eric Clapton’s Bell Bottom Blues and eventually (usually with the accompaniment of rain drops and windshield wipers) Springsteen’s Point Blank. Even now, nearly 20 years later, the memories of those mix tapes are pretty much guaranteed to bring a smile to both my face, and my brother’s. So, that being said, the soundtrack to your life is something I take extremely seriously. Whether it’s dinner,working out or at the job, the perfect mix of background music is of utter importance. For example, though Metallica’s Seek and Destroy is perfect for the gym, it’s just not going to cut it while having osso bucco with your chick.

Undoubtedly, the time when song selection is the most important is when you’re getting the booty. This is why I will never get the night I made sweet love to the sounds of the local easy listening station out of my head. I remember it like yesterday, I walked into Marilu Henner’s apartment (to protect the guilty, I referring to her as the sexy star of TV’s Taxi) and it was almost perfect. I entered into total candlelight and when I called out, Marilu Henner appeared before me in nothing but a tiny top and sexy panties and she looked HOT. As I pulled her in close and went for the kill, I was filled with ecstasy, desire, and… the sounds of Billy Joel’s She’s Got A Way? Who would put that on for sexy time? As I kissed her and tore my own clothes off, I decided this was the wrong time to tell her that Your Song by Elton John cannot possibly sustain an erection. So I went for it and, despite the dreadful cries of Celine Dion, sex with Marilu was a hot, hot time. Post coitus, Ms. Henner asked if it was perfect and I said yes. Then I thought about it some more and I said ALMOST PERFECT. Cue record scratch. I tried to explain that everything SHE DID was wonderful but it was the soundtrack to the booty that was horrid. She tried to take my mind off it with a little round 2 and it ALMOST worked, if I hadn’t heard George Michael declaring, “I’m never gonna dance again…”; Kids, Wham! and weiner can never mix (unless of course you are a member of Wham!).

Marilu Henner, I will always love you, but as a service to you and those everywhere who are play list-challenged, below are some examples of…

SONGS GOOD TO BONE TO (AND SONGS NOT TO)!

Play This…

1. Voodoo (In it’s entirety) by D’Angelo

2. Anything by Sigur Ros- Sex with the aide of this Icelandic band is like skyrocketing into orbit (while doing it).

3. ALMOST anything by Erykah Badu

And Not…

1. One More Night by Phil Collins

2. Straight Outta Compton by N.W.A. Sex to hip hop in general is tricky, it’s best not to fool with anything edgy or political.

3. Any of the Lite FM bullshit I mentioned earlier.

Special Note: When putting on music to bone to, it’s best to avoid anything by your favorite artist. For example, I would never put on anything by Bruce. The reason being, I know I am douchey enough to stop mid-penetration to explain that, though I thoroughly enjoy the guitar solo on the 1999-2000 reunion tour rendition of “Prove It All Night,” it doesn’t even come close to the brilliance of the one on the ‘78 “Darkness” tour.

Move On Up!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Bite your lip and take a trip/Though there may be wet road ahead you cannot slip
-Curtis Mayfield



The Following words were written in 2 parts, you'll see what I mean...

I love my girlfriend but she wants to move in together and while she is handling this like an adult, I'm freaking out like a lunatic. We've been together for 2 years, everything is great and the first mention of taking that next step and I'm losing it. Why is this? I think it's because even as we push 30 and beyond, the threat of domestication is not cool. The term is arrested development, I believe, but I can't think of anything better than putting on some Pearl Jam and playing some NHL '94 on the Sega Genesis. See, right now living as a bachelor I can do that. But in my head, I fear that once we move in together I will be reduced listening to Fergie while making a salad. I can't do that! And it's not helping that almost everyone I know is either married, engaged or (gasp) has kids! Fellas, hook a brother up and slow down. I've got a few more games left to play.

Just days after I was holding on to the ultimate dream of playing 16 bit video games while listening to my favorite music from 1994, I told my girlfriend I wanted to move in together. GASP! And how did I do it? After freaking out and making the girl cry, I showed up at her place with a hanger and a bow attached to it. DOUBLE GASP! I made the plunge and I did it in a super gay way. Sometimes, you have to do what you do for love, even if it shows your vajayjay.
How did I do it? How did I go from running towards the hills of adolescent bliss to dinner parties and Saturdays at Costco? Simple: I actually didn't have to travel as far as I thought, and men are assholes.

In my younger days, I thought the male species could be broken down into two iconic 80s movie actors: William Zabka and John Cusack. Zabka (who played Johnny in The Karate Kid and every other asshole bully of the decade) was representative of every rich, good looking dick who got not just the girl but THE girl, was friends with all of the other other jerkoffs who got the other THE girls, and was also superior in every sport from football to bocce ball. Then there were the Cusacks of the world, the awkward, less good looking ones who were usually not very good in sports (except as a fluke maybe kickboxing), got bullied and had to play an overused Peter Gabriel ballad outside of a girl's window at an inappropriate hour to even have a shot at getting her. The Zabka/Cusack theory is a black and white one: good vs evil. I was Cusack (or most specifically, Say Anything's Lloyd Dobbler). I was the funny, sweet guy with unlimited potential to realize. I knew that one day I would get the girl, we'd get married, have a house in Jersey with a couple of kids, a million dollars and endless sex. Sooner than later I did get the girl. But then I got another one and another after that (Note: In no way am I boasting or claiming that I am pimp. I am 29 with no religious boundaries, if I don't have at least 2 gals under the old belt then oh, help me Jesus.). My point being that I just knew that one day, far down the road, I would be in a position where I was a grown up ready to make home with a woman. Now I am in that very position and I don't know where the time went. I swear to you, last month every day was a new adventure, full of fun and empty of responsibility. All of a sudden, I am a grown up and I have to decide whether or not I am capable of this new found responsibility. As men often do, instead of talking to my girl about my fears, I took my imagination to new heights. I went from sleeping in the same bed every night to never hanging out with anyone else ever and watching Dancing With The Stars while eating a roasted chicken for eternity.

As it turns out, I am an idiot and an idiot with no concept of modesty at all. When all of this came up, I learned that my girlfriend a) also has her concerns, being that I am a pain in the ass and b) not only does she not want to spend every waking moment with me but would lose her shit if she had to. Furthermore, apparently to move in is not to lose your individuality. Plus, you split rent.

Am I scared? Absolutely. But I now know it's alright. I also know that next time I should just communicate rather than have us at an IKEA looking for drapes while my lady shows off my balls in a jar. So I'm going to do it. As of March I will be part of a live-in couple. I'll even watch some Dancing With The Stars, just let me finish this period- I've got some Rangers Vs. Whalers action going.

Thanksgiving (But Thanks For What?)

My first Thanksgiving memory is driving to my aunt and uncle's house out on Long Island, my parents, my young brother and myself all singing along to Alice's Restaurant, Arlo Guthrie's second greatest masterpiece (the first being the grossly underrated Byrd's of Paradise). I used to close my eyes and smile in anticipation, knowing I was just minutes away from a gluttonous feast as we heard those sweet words. You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant.

Fast forward a divorce and two remarriages and I've found that you can get anything you want there because obviously Alice didn't have a blended family. I just came from my dad's for Thanksgiving and I didn't get much of anything I wanted.

I wanted a nice intimate family dinner, instead we were 17 people packed in tight like a prison mess hall. There's so many goddamn people at this dinner that I'm 29 and I'm still at the kiddie table. This must be a record! At one point, I saw my reflection in some glass and I felt so hip. I saw this messed up on purpose coif, scruffy beard and loosened designer tie and for a second I thought maybe I was at a sophisticated Manhattan dinner party discussing art and literature (or anything else I saw from a Woody Allen movie). Instead, I looked up and realized I was stuck listening to my 16 year old step sister, who has nothing to say that I want to hear. She even went as far as to criticize the talents of Kurt Cobain, this coming from a girl who desecrated her furniture with a Katy Perry sticker. Why does she even have an opinion on this? I have flannel older than you, young lady.

I wanted endless amounts of leftovers to savior over the next couple of days. Turkey sandwiches and stuffing to go along with a late night Die Hard marathon. Instead, I got a drum stick and three grapefruits. There's some hard adjustments when you're in a divorced/blended family but if there's one thing I've never gotten used to is how terribly I get jipped on the leftovers. Every holiday now, I have to fight over leftover ham, turkey, calamari, it doesn't matter. I am the oldest child, grandson, nephew, however you want to look at it. I've put in the time with these people, I should bring home at least half a turkey and a vat of mashed potatoes.

So, if anyone knows how to get a hold of Alice let me know. Greggy needs some peace and stuffing.

The Lick Show

Check out this brilliant video of me licking one of my favorite people in the world, Tanisha Slater

Baked, Alaska

Exactly two weeks after the election, it has finally been confirmed that Senator Ted Stevens of Alaska has not won his latest bid for re-election. Thank (*&()&) God. Alaska, I suppose there is a glimmer of hope for you, but I don't know. First, you gave us Sarah Palin and now it takes 14 days to figure out whether or not you elected a convicted felon? You better kiss Northern Exposure's ass, because at this point these people are the only respectable ones you have and they're not even real. The fact that the election was so close that you need 14 days to figure it out is insane. What concerns me most politically is how atrocious is his opponent, Senator-Elect Mark Begich, must be. A dude who is on his way to trading commissary points for cigarettes, a man who went from making laws to making shanks almost beat you. How bad do you suck? Whenever your mom brags about you being a Senator, her friends will give her crap. You will have a asterisk next to your name in Wikipedia, you are the Roger Maris of Senators. Alaska, may God be with you.