29 December 2003

Some Post-Holiday Crap That I Have Been Thinking About


--I got into this conversation again the other night with a female friend, and I am going to lay down the law on the issue once and for all...

I, as I know is the case for many guys, cannot tell if a guy is "good looking". It is not a matter of embarrassment, feeling as though I might be perceived as homosexual if I "admit" I find a guy "attractive". This is always the first rebuttal you face from a female when this conversation comes up:

GIRL: "He's a really good looking guy."
GUY: "If you say so."
GIRL: "What, you don't think so?"
GUY: "I don't know, I can't tell."
GIRL: "Yes you can. What, are you afraid if you admit he's good looking people are going to think you're gay?"
GUY: "No, I don't care, I just can't tell."
GIRL: "Well girls can find other girls attractive. Why can't guys do the same? It's because you're threatened that it might challenge your sexuality."

And on and on into absurdium. I guarantee that since the inception of humanity, women have nagged men with this intellectually vapid assertion over 600 trillion times.

So, for the broads, I am setting it straight (no pun intended) for you on behalf of men across the world (and myself, because I am most certainly not a man).

I can tell if a guy is ugly or goofy looking outright, no problem. But as far as I am concerned, facially, every "normal" male is just as good looking as the next. If a guy is not fat, decently dressed, has a normal gait and posture, and generally seems not to be a douche, I can easily say, "He's a good looking guy." No problem. But this has nothing to do with "Attractive looks".

Biologically, I have no senses to tell me if a guy is "good looking" or not in a sexual or non-sexual realm. I just don't, and if you don't accept that or can't understand it, then just shut the f*ck up, walk away, and talk to me no further. Aesthetically, I cannot tell you what about Paul Walker's facial features make him more attractive than Seth Green but less attractive than Ashton Kutcher. I know from listening to females and from general appearance that they are all considered good looking in many circles, but what sets each apart from the other is not only a mystery to me, but also a matter of personal preference.

Good enough? I hope so, because it's the damn best I can do. Again, if that's not good enough for you, then shut off, I'm tired of having that conversation.

--I can tell one thing that is decidedly not attractive, and that is the low rise female jeans. There are several reasons for my comment:

1. They just flat-out look unflattering on many otherwise lovely ladies.

2. They make otherwise lovely ladies who are NOT fat look fat by causing a bulging and flaring effect on whatever fat exists around the midsection, and specifically backfat. Concurrently, the trend is for female shirts to be cut higher, exposing a midriff, which is usually fine. The problem arises when the aforementioned bulging/flaring happens, causing FatWings (TM) to explode from the female midsection which, when coupled with the shortened t-shirt, is a disgusting sight even on the most attractive of coeds.

3. This particular cut of jean makes it appear as though the female has more narrow hips which, as far as I'm concerned, is not a good thing. What is with this trend of trying to look like a stick figure (see Paris Hilton or Tara Reid)? Female hips are a good thing, people. I'm not advocating a population boom on Fat Chicks, as there is a massive difference between Curvy (Beyonce Knowles, Kate Winslett) and Straight-up Pudge (fat people), and also between Fit (Britney, Jessica Simpson) and Stickly (Hilton, Reid). But come on.

Let's get to work on this, ladies. Ditch the low-rise, please, or at least wear them without the backfat.

--All that said, I would take the Tara Reid of American Pie I over the Tara Reid of Now any day of the week. Not that she didn't look good in Van Wilder. She did. But the boobies in American Pie, my Christ. And then they were all gone. See, that's the other thing about not going crazy about losing weight if you're a female--your breasts are going to be bigger. And that's good for everyone.

I need to stop before I get off track here.

--I hate the game of basketball. Hate it. I have all the Roundball Aptitude (TM) of a four year-old girl with no arms. I suck. Not that I was ever the most athletically gifted kid ever, but I could hold my own in several sports. Basketball was not one of them. The rim looks to me as though it's fifteen centimeters wide and being guarded by angry Rim Trolls. I'm terrible.

However, one of the greatest Joys of my life is the running competition held between myself and three buddies. The Lower Allen Squad (T. Richardson Brown, Banker and Svelte Princeton Andy) routinely battles Team New Cumberland (myself and the venerable Private First Class Chez) during times of Respite. This used to include all breaks from college and good portions of the summer months, but now that three of the four of us have graduated college and all of us live in different geographic areas, it's near impossible to find time to dismantle each other physically and psychologically.

Fortunately, we were able to meet up twice in the last week. It was somewhat somber, as this will likely be the last installment in the series for quite some time, if not forever. Trevor lives in DC, Andy is still plugging away at Princeton, I leave for Cali in May, and Chez is off to Iraq in February for a year. Though a somber mood threatened to cloud to proceedings on the heels of such, the games were well-contested by both sides, and neither side seemed to be hampered by the fact that, save for Sanders (Chez, don't ask), we are all in truly awful physical shape.

The first series went well for LAS and, accordingly, was pretty much an overall pants-sh*tting for TNC. T. Rock and Andy walked away with a 3 games to 1 victory, as Chez carried our team through my inability to get the ball even close to something vaguely resembling scoring. Also troubling was the indoor venue provided no 2-point demarcation, leaving me without 72% of my scoring game. Watching me trying to drive to the hoop is like watching Christopher Reeve trying to successfully navigate his way through a workout on a Universal Machine.

Fortunately, we were afforded 50+ degree temps in Central PA yesterday and a rematch was pressed. The pairs split the first two games, and then a LAS win was topped by two straight victories by TNC, giving us that day's Best-Out-of-Five, 3-2. All I can say is that, with the game on the line and the 2-point stripe at my disposal, well, my game was stupid fly, yo.

This whole Christmas week reminded me that it really, truly is the small things in life that make you the happiest. Seeing family, making stupid trips to the mall, playing ball with your high school buddies...I'm headed out for a life that is assuredly going to provide with me immense amounts of excitement, intrigue, and financial/personal/professional success. I believe all that, knowing that the things I care about most involve no amount of money, fame, prestige or any other kind of Attained Bullcrap (TM). I can take the Earth to the Moon and back again, but if I can't pick up and hit the courts with some of my best friends, what the hell does it all really matter? That's what makes me happy. To an extent, that's what should drive people, and anyone who can't find some sort of joy in the minutiae of an Average Life has misspent a good portion of their days.


22 December 2003

Watch as I Tackle All Matters Relationship


--Well, this just pisses me the f*ck off:

Olson Twins to NYU

A couple of issues with this...

1) Are the two of you ever going to do a g*ddamn thing separately? There are Conjoined Twins out there who would flip (not literally) for the chance to be away from each other for fifteen minutes, something that seems an outright impossibility with you guys. On one hand, this is mortifyingly annoying; on another, it's sorta creepy, unless it leads to some kind of porn career, which I'm down with. Start with each of you doing a different movie, then you can reunite to have sexual relations with me once you turn 18, and then split again and figure out what it's like to be a unique person.

2) What the f*ck are you going to study in college? Acting? You're going to spend $40,000 a year to learn something that you're already getting paid gobs of money to do? Or are you going to try to learn something "real" and sell out, taking some kind of Sociology or Psychology crap that you'll never use? Want to do something good for the world? Take $1 million of your estimated $80 million personal worth, send 25 poor kids to a decent college for four years, and then suck it up and major in General Studies at Arizona State where you can drink your faces off, because Christ knows that's what you really want to do anyway.

3) As per the latter portions of #2, if you're just going to get the "College Experience(TM)", NYU ain't the place to do it. A day featuring Morning Yoga with Hilary Duff and her Lead Guitarist followed by Trignometry and Applied Anthro capped off with dinner at Tavern on the Green and a night of clubbing with Britney is not exactly "Slumming it through school".

4) Why the f*ck must you move the entire way across the motherf*cking country right as I'm about to move into your backyard? Curse the Gods, someone up in Heaven hates me.

--Had a very deep conversation with my good buddy T. Richardson Brown, Banker last night. T. Rich (as I like to call him) and I have had very similar experiences lately, and I would like to share with you all one of my most Ironclad Unconquerable Postulates: The Red Light/Green Light Sexual Allowance Treaty. If nothing else, I just hope to bridge the gap between genders.

Imagine this: guys, you are with a lady. Things are getting passionate. There is some amount of overtly amorous kissing. One party (it doesn't matter which) suggests a transplant to a more convenient locale, most likely a bedroom. Things progress. Let's say you go from laying parallel on the bed to a point where the lady has climbed on top of you and, as T. Rich has labeled it, starts doing a little "grindy pelvis" (accurate technical jargon). There is some amount of dirty talk. This turns into a large amount of dirty talk and very suggestive sexual innuendo. You remove the lady's shirt. She offers no resistance. At this point you figure all is a go. A move is made to enter the pant region of the female, and at this point, all hell breaks loose. The lady rescinds her efforts, asking what the hell you could possibly be thinking making such a move. The encounter is over, no one has been helped, and you likely have Blue Balls.

What has happened? The failure of the female to abide by the Code of the Red/Light Green Light Proclamation of 2722, BC.

It's simple ladies: if you don't want to do anything, don't act like you do. No grindy pelvis. No sexually-laden language. No allowed removal of shirts. Not if you're just going to cut it short in a snippy little tirade. It's as simple as the allegorical signal light: if you're not up for it, don't take it past the smoochies. If you are, let me know. Done and done.

Now of course, we've all stumbled into a situation where the hormones are screaming the affirmative but the old brain kicks in and curbs the proceedings with a negatory. This is understandable and can be exacerbated with a simple, "Hey, I'm sorry, but this is just too fast/not the right time/whatever." That's OK. Once. Maybe twice. After two it's just flat out teasing and unacceptable.

A variance of this is all the above mentioned, but then the lady stops and says, "OK, well I have to go," or, "Eh, I don't think I'm in the mood for this." Bullsh*t. No. F*ck no. It might be easy for a girl to float back to earth after getting revved up, but not a guy. Last I checked it takes four cold showers, seven shots of Ny-Quil and a basket of Blueberry muffins to stop the quaking.

The problem is this: if you're a male, it's been drilled into your head--and rightly so--that when the girl says stop, you f*cking stop dead in your tracks, lest you be labeled a sexual predator. The problem is that girls either do or do not realize what a powerful rule this is, and not being cognizant of the proper way to handle it can lead to disaster. So the message is simple: if you don't want it, that's OK; let us know at the outset and don't act like you do. Not fun. If you do want it, that's fine too, just try not to change your mind while I'm in mid-pump.

--Referencing the above, here is another thing I'm terribly sick of: chicks whining and b*tching when they f*ck a guy after the first or second week and he loses interest. F*cking stop the crying. As long as chicks tease, guys are going to Bang and Bolt. It's a rule of Nature.

You know exactly the girl I'm talking about. She's a veteran of the Three Week Ready-to-Bake Relationship where she meets a guy, gets overly excited about him, lets him bang her and then is clueless why she "can't find a decent boyfriend" and "why all guys are assh*les". This girl is usually a full-blown manhater and generally has nothing to offer to society at large. Note to Chicks: if you give it up right away, a lot of guys are going to blow right out of town. Not all, but some.

Take a clue from Red Light/Green Light...if you like the dude and want to keep something going, just don't sleep with him. Sure, do other stuff if you want, but just keep it to a mild level. Say things like, "I don't want to jump into anything serious," even if it's a total lie. At least you've covered yourself and you're likely going to save him a case of Blue Balls. And then you don't get screwed, proverbially and actually, either.

--Something else I consider a disturbing trend is people getting married to the person they've dated since high school. I know more than a few people who have done this, and while at this point they all seem to be working out for the best, my personal feeling is that it's a very bad idea, especially if you have gone to college separately.

Allow me to expound.

You've dated someone since you were sixteen. You date them all through college. You are now 23 or 24. Still with the same person. Now you're getting married. What are the inherent problems here? Well, first of all, it's been eight years, and if you were totally faithful in all that time (imagine me making a big huge wink right here), you've never experienced anything else. So almost the entirety of your "growing up", per se, has been within the bounds of one physical relationship. Red flag. You think you haven't changed as a person since you were 16? If you haven't, you're an assh*le. If you have, can you really gauge whether or not the person you're with is not only making you truly happy, but is even still compatible with who you've become?

I'll never forget one of my teachers telling me this story, and she swears it's true, and I think it makes the point brilliantly (stick that in your pipe, Metz): As a kid, she used to go to Baskin Robbins once a week with her family, all the way through high school and college. Always went home and took a nap afterwards. For years she went and got nothing but vanilla ice cream. Nothing. Always liked it. Never got bored. Then one day Pineapple showed up. Huge pineapple fan. Wanted the vanilla, but really wanted the pineapple. So she tried it. It was absolute crap. Swore it off forever. Went in the next week, and they were out of vanilla. So she tried the chocolate. Loved it. Raved about it even. Went home and didn't take a nap. Why? She finds out years later that she had, in her adolescence, grown allergic to the vanilla bean. She took a nap every week because it ended up giving her a splitting headache.

First of all, is that not the perfect story for this situation? Second, this is not meant to say that you can't always stick with vanilla, that things will fall apart if you don't listen to me and life will go to hell. Certainly that's not the case. The problem is that we have a proclivity in our culture to believe that things have always been and will always be the way they are/were. We are forced, subconsciously many times, into situations that may not actually benefit us because societal norms are banged into out psyche from day one. Few ever examine what they are actually doing or, God forbid, find out what is on the other side of the fence, and THAT is the real issue here. People are so afraid to "lose something" or disrupt the status quo that they never take any chances. Sure, plenty of these marriages work, and God Bless you, truly, if you find someone you love and can make it last. All the best. But we have a 53% divorce rate in this country, and I dare you to sit there and try to convince me that many of these arrangements are not to blame for a chunk of that.

Want to see the sh*t really hit the fan? Ask someone who is vehemently religious to explore faiths outside their own. Want to talk about people who are walking in the pitch-f*cking-dark? Yikes. I have been wanting to breach this subject for months now, but it's almost impossible for me to put into words my perceived state of Current World Religion and just how sheepish I think people can be. Maybe someday I'll be able to come up with the correct verbage.


My buddy Carmen over at JustCarmen (aptly named, no?) suggested that we do a "Top Five All-Time Underrated/Underappreciated Films". This is a fantastic idea, and we will feature this soon. However, in light of the Xmas season, I decided that we are going to have a holiday themed GooseTown Xmas Cinema Poll:

Which is the greatest cinematic nude scene ever?

1. Fast Times at Ridgemont High: Phoebe Cates. Dear Sweet Jesus in Heaven. The pool scene in this film singlehandedly defined adolescence for males for the next 75 years. Period. I'm serious, was there a better set of boobies ever? WE are talking perfection here, people.

2. Mischief: Kelly Preston. Wow. Wow. If you haven't actually seen the film, the scene is the picture that's all over the internet of Kelly Preston's boobies. Wow.

3. American Pie: Shannon Elizabeth. Now I am not a fan of fake boobies, hers included, but this is more about the context of the nude scene rather than the nudity itself. Why am I associating all these nude scenes with teen-themed flicks? Hmm....

4. American Beauty: Thora Birch. A couple of things are wonderful about this one: 1) They're large and perky, an absolutely fantastic combo; 2) Seriously, if you were lucky enough to live next door to an attractive girl, what are the chances you'd not only catch her naked in her window, but that she'd actually be doing it for your benefit? 3) She was 17 at the time it was filmed. It was only allowed because her parents signed off on the scene, giving it their OK. Why is this significant? For many of us, it's the last time we'll see 17 year old breasts without getting jailed for it.

5. Wild Card: Your call. I've left some out intentionally to see if any of you mention them. Please do so.

Don't say I never give ya nothin' to think about.


18 December 2003

I Had No Title for This Post for a Week and No One Noticed


Sorry, I have been away for a bit. I can't post as much during Xmas season, as I work 8-Midnight five days a week. I do have some random thoughts, however.

--Watched a thing on MTV the other day about Hilary Duff, who will be quite hot once she reaches the age of 18. She is currently promoting her new album by touring with "her" band. They kept showing clips of her onstage with her posse, and "her" lead guitarist seemed really, really into the proceedings. This begs a question that is tailor made for comment by one Mr. Craig Metz...

If you are the lead guitarist touring with Hilary Duff...have you "made" it? Does that even really count? Can you tell chicks?

"Yeah, I'm on tour with my band right now."
"Whoa, no way! Who?!?!?"
"Well, er...Hilary Duff and the Pretty Butterflys." (EDITOR'S NOTE: OK, I made up the band name, but it's probably close to something like that.)

Yeah....good for you man. I would like everyone to note that Hilary Duff's guitarist is making more money and getting laid more than myself. And he's Hilary Duff's guitarist. Did I mention that? No matter how much you say he's Hilary Duff's guitarist, it doesn't sound any less absurd.

Similar industry jobs: J-Lo's Ass Buffer; Ben Affleck's Sanity Technician; Mark Hamill's Career Guidance Counselor; Heidi Klum's Beauty Double.

--Speaking of Hilary Duff, she is rumored to be in a feud with fellow Jailbait-In-Waiting Lindsay Lohan. If you don't know who Lindsay Lohan is, do an internet search (I don't have the energy to link tonight) and find out. Again, you'll notice that she will likely be quite attractive once she attains the age of 18. If you are attracted to the aesthetically/emotionally ghastly Paris Hilton, Ms. Lohan probably won't do much for you. Then again, if Paris Hilton does it for you, you're already an idiot and well beyond saving.

--Every time I type anything remotely like the two entries above, there's always a little statistician somewhere in the back of my mind reminding me, "The authorities are coming, and if they happen to pound on the door while you're typing this, you're going to sh*t your pants and have a coronary."

--Yahoo! continues its exclusive run on the Most Important Stories of the Day:

December 15, 2003: A student at some college somewhere in America, running a program on his computer 24 hours a day for seventeen days, found the Largest Known Prime Number in the History of the World (TM). The number, previously uncalculated, is divisible by only itself and 1 and is over 6,000,000 numbers long.

When asked what he wanted to do for an encore, the student, an obvious new sex symbol, replied that he wanted to go on tour as Hilary Duff's accountant, noting that the lead guitarist gig was taken.

December 16, 2003: Clay Aiken was named 2003's Most Well Mannered Person by the world-class, Household Name, Honorable Society of...The National League of Junior Cotillions. Weeping Jesus on the Cross I swear this is a real organization. The League's Vice President made the announcement, noting the League's President and CEO wanted to make the presentation but was unavailable as he is on tour as the lead guitarist for Hilary Duff.

--Speaking with James of CannedJam as I write this entry, a question must be asked: does anyone remember Jello 1-2-3? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? I think James and I spent a good half hour of a drunken Homecoming morning discussing the relative peculiarities of the multidimensional dessert option that has since our childhood gone the way of the DoDo and MC Hammer. Can anyone with any sense of physics, chaos theory, or linear calculus please explain to me how the f*ck they got the layers to form? Is this a miracle of modern science? Has anything like it since been replicated? I think it may have been invented by NASA.

For those of you not enlightened, Jello 1-2-3 was a derivative of the popular Jello line that made it's heyday in the mid - late 1980's. It was a thing of brilliance, of near science-fictional proportions. The powder was all mixed in the same bowl, like regular Jello, but after it was inserted into the refrigerator, it morphed into a seemingly insane creation: the bottom layer was a more dense, fruitier form of regular Jello; the middle layer was just slightly lighter than regular Jello, and the top (oh Christ, the top) layer was a fluffy (oh Jesus, so fluffy), spongy creation that could have only come from Heaven. If you missed out on this Wonder of Life...well, you can never understand true happiness.

Please feel free to share your Jello 1-2-3 experiences. If anyone out there in GooseTown...er...Land...Ville, knows where I can get my hands on some, please, for the love of all things Holy, let me know.


10 December 2003

Watch as the Forces of the Universe Unite Against Me


The Gods have unfavorable plans for me, my friends. Worst News Week (TM) ever.

--For those of you not formally acquainted with myself, I am a medical foul ball. I have/have had no less than all of the following maladies: heart murmur, hypoglycemia, vertigo, mononucleosis, acute chronic tonsillitis (requiring tonsilectomy), and a bout with Cytomegalovirus that left me paralyzed for nearly a month with transverse myelitis (as a result of the tonsilectomy).

I have been all over the place. Because of the last mentioned affliction, I must get regular bloodwork done for the next two years to keep watch on the ol' Immune System, mine of which is crap. You know that bar in any given college town that is notorious for letting in anyone, including all the underage kids, knowing full-well they'll get in trouble and lose their license? Well, my Immune System apparently employs the same bouncers.

In any event, I get my bloodwork done and get a call from my doctor. He's asking me all kinds of questions about my eating habits since he moved me to my 1200 calorie/day diet five days a week (I'm pretty good with it) and my exercise patterns (the who with the what now?). After providing my answers, he tells me my blood sugar levels are hellish and that my insulin levels fluctuate more than Mariah Carey's sanity. Basically, my hypoglycemia is bordering on diabetic. With two or more members of my immediate family having such a disease, the prognosis is not good, unless I make changes. He asks me in a dense tone, "So how does this sound?" (always a bad sign):

--1200 calorie intake seven days a week
--No sugar and nothing that can be processed as sugar, which means...
--No carbohydrates
--No alcohol
--Multivitamin regimen
--Fiber pills
--Emergency sugar pills
--40 minutes running/day
--Eight month minimum contract. $250 fee for Early Termination. See website for details.

How does that sound? It sounds like The Atkins Diet for The Hitler Youth, you limey f*ck. I swore openly a few times over the phone about the "No alcohol" portion of my new "Lifeplan" (I hate that terminology, it sounds like insurance you would sell a gay couple) and cursed everything dealing with Modern Medicine. He took it in stride, as Dr. Smithton does, because he's the best doctor in the world, really, and informed me that I didn't have to do it, and if I chose not to that's OK, he'll just fax over an order form for my first month's supply of twice-daily insulin injections.

I chose Hell over the needles.

The worst part is that my metabolism has denigrated to that of a 60 year old man, which is not good, and this should fix it, which is good. But I'm not ready to talk about the "No alcohol" clause yet. Maybe some other time.

Basically, be glad you aren't me if you weren't already, which most of you are, so I'm wasting my time talking about nothing right now.

--Continuing the trend, my friends strive to make life hard for me.

There is a girl that works in the mall across from my store who has been trying to get with me for several weeks now. I say this not out of arrogance but just out of fact, and God knows females rarely approach me, so I can't be making this up. It's not that she's so bad looking--she's not. Fantastic body. Huge boobies. Phenomenal. But she has two major factors working against her: an atrocious manvoice/lisp combo and the fact that she is certifiably insane. I mean criminally unbalanced. From her stories (none of which are verifiable) she grew up in Brooklyn, her brother went to jail for a gangland shooting, she got kicked out of the Marines, and she recently totaled a brand new Mustang convertible that she paid $23,000 for, but was only allotted $7,000 in her insurance settlement. She's constantly dropping me hints like, "Man, it's a pain finding a ride home," and, "If you don't feel like driving back to York, you can crash at my place, I got my own place now," all the while splicing in comments such as, "Yeah, I've been sick all week, throwing up and stuff. I think it's the flu, but I hope I'm just not pregnant. Because I don't take birth control. It gives you cancer." These conversations, obviously, make me insatiably horny to the point where I want to marry her.

Until last night, I had made it three solid weeks without so much as making eye contact or asking her name. Of course my friends that I work with all find this hilarious because hey, it's not them. Were I in their shoes I feel certain I'd partake in similar enjoyment. Last night this girl comes in again. Little do I know, my buddy Jay has a plan. As she's talking to me, he walks up to us. The horrific conversation that follows:

JAY: "Hey, what are you doing?"
MINDY: "Nothing."
JAY: "You giving Geoff your phone number?" (Jay, what the f*ck are you doing?)
MINDY: "What?"
(Geoff's head is down, folding shirts, trying not to laugh)
JAY: "You should give him your phone number. So you two can hang out sometime after work." (Jay, why? Stop. Please.)
MINDY: "He doesn't want my number."
JAY: "Yeah he does, don't you? You'll call her." (You motherf*cker.)
MINDY: "He won't call me."
GEOFF (head down): "She's right. I don't call anyone. I never use my phone."
JAY (handing her piece of paper): "He's just being shy. Here's his number. You can call him. Tear a piece off and write your number on it." (Son of a b*tch.)
(Mindy begins writing number. Mindy enters Geoff's number into cell phone. All hell breaks loose in Geoff's head.)
JAY: "Did you ever even know Geoff's name? Geoff, do you know hers?" (Holy f*cking sh*t, you sonofab*tch c*cksucking assraping c*mguzzler.)
(Mindy hands Geoff piece of paper. Geoff reads name "MINDY". Small guttural emission from Geoff.)
MINDY: "I'm Mindy."
GEOFF (head still down): "I...I...just met another girl named Mindy last week. I'm on a roll I guess." (Jesus Christ you idiot, stop talking.)

And that's the end of the ordeal. She leaves. Everyone in the store who is not me is in hysterics. Greatest Thing Ever I guess. All I can contemplate is revenge, but I'm laughing so hard because g*ddamnit, if it hadn't been me it really would have been funny. G*ddamn my life. G*ddamn it all to Hell.

I'm going to need a CAT san.

--Here is something that is truly an enigma to me. This is a break from the norm, an honest query for which I'd like an honest answer from anyone "in the know", as it were.

If you are a lesbian, great. I love lesbians, the idea of two women getting together. Sometimes three. Maybe four on my birthday. Go for it. I'm not here to judge. But if you are a lesbian, you are by definition attracted to other women, as are heterosexual men.

What I am befuddled by is the propensity for so many lesbian women to be attracted to the "Butch" type--typically male haircut, typically male clothing, etc. It's so confusing--as a male attracted to females, I want a female...that looks like a female. Girly. Isn't that the point? You're attracted to females. Why do you want to be with someone that looks like a guy? It doesn't make sense. If that's what you want, date a guy.

Does this seem unreasonable? I know the style is partly, for many, a social statement of rebellion of the female archetype, which I can understand if not appreciate. Why do lesbians who just look like regular females have to be labeled as "Lipstick Lesbians", like they are somehow less? I'm way far from understanding this. Someone shed light. Preferably 100 Watt or higher.

--One of Yahoo!'s Top Five stories of the day today was Elvis Costello marrying someone named Diana Krall. Does anyone know anyone who gives even a Remote Flying F*ck (TM)? Tomorrow I'm asking that Yahoo! post my riveting "Man Drives Nearly 286 Miles on One Tank of Gas" featurette.


Suggested viewing for the theatrically challenged.

1) Unbreakable--M. Night Shayamalan's unfortunately overlooked followup to The Sixth Sense. With all the Comic Book style movies coming out recently, this one could be considered a trendsetter. Very deliberate but quite good, and with the famous M. Night twist ending.

2) Rob Zombie's House of 1000 Corpses--I have been on a serious horror kick of late. This is not a "good" movie in the sense of what you'd usually look for. But it's disgusting. And it's fun. And g*ddamnit, listen to me for once.

3) 28 Days Later...--A much different film than the previous, and better, in my opinion. The DVD has alternate endings that are great.

4) License To Drive--I know I have mentioned this before. First of all, you cannot go wrong with the Coreys. Second of all, is there anything wrong with a young and supple Heather Graham? Production values? Low. Level of my Irantenessosity Meter that this is not on DVD? High.

5) Following--First film by the director of Memento, one of my all-time favorites. You won't know a damn person in the movie, but it's very well written and executed. Next up for Nolan? Batman: Intimidation (or Batman 5, for you idiots). This one will house Halle Barry as Catwoman (a role which Ashley Judd turned down, sadly enough) and Christian Bale as Bruce Wayne/Batman. That's right. Patrick Bateman is Batman. The Gods are shining upon us, my friends. And by "us" I of course mean "all except me".


06 December 2003

Shoveling F*cking Blows, or Reason #2,783 I Can't Wait to Move to LA


--It's cold. F*cking cold. The wind is blowing fiercely and it's not warm. In fact, it's the polar opposite (major pun intended) of warm. I shoveled my long driveway for two shifts of two hours each today, and the motherf*cker still isn't done, plus there's the roof to do. In case you're not following along here, I was just laid up for a week with the flu. Shoveling in Arctic-level temps is not Chicken Soup for the Unvaccinated Soul. I just thought I'd point this out.

By the way, it's colder than a motherf*cker. Enjoy the copious amounts of swearing related to the temperatures in this, my latest Blog.

--Have you all heard about the threatening letters sent to black athletes in the last two years? To be accurate, they've been sent to all kinds of prominent black entertainers, but some letters have gone to black athletes. There is an article here on ESPN.com about them, and the article starts off with a befuddling quote:

"Dolphins defensive end Jason Taylor and Eagles wide receiver Freddie Mitchell received two of about 30 threatening letters sent to prominent, successful black people over the last two years."

Prominent, successful black people. Freddie Mitchell.

I don't see the connection.

For those of you not in "The Know", as it were, Freddie Mitchell is a second-string Wide Receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles, who possess one of the worst receiving corps in the NFL. He is not prominent, nor is he successful, other than the fact that he miraculously ended up on an NFL field in the first place. Jason Taylor is one of, if not the, best linemen in the NFL, so it would make logical sense that he would be targeted. But Freddie "Hands of a Clock" Mitchell?

I'm not trying to make too much light of the situation, but who the hell is this Terroristic Racist? Sitting around in a basement somewhere, plotting doom against all ethnic groups across America, trying to break apart the delicate racial bonds of the nation, and setting his sights on...Freddie, a perennial pine blanket who played second fiddle to "He Hate Me" a few seasons ago.

Good call, jackass. Thankfully for your cause, you managed to send a few letters to athletes who people give a damn about. All said and done, could you just really do something to help out society and shoot yourself? As a matter of fact, this should give police on the case a decent lead, as only a disgruntled Eagle's fan would have taken the time and initiative to bother poor Freddie with hate mail. Problem is that ignorant, boorish, maniacal, and socially juvenile describes...pretty much every Eagle's fan. So nevermind.

--The time has come to give Tamala Jones her due. Damn the genius that is DanWho for beating me to mentioning her. The other night I tuned into The Tracey Morgan Show to find that she plays his wife. She looks better than ever. Most of you will recall Tamala from her role as Nikki in Booty Call with Jamie Fox. She is absolutely breathtaking, and unfortunately in our culture Halle Barry, who I am not a fan of, rose to dominance as the public's favorite as Most Attractive Black Actress. I disagree wholeheartedly, though Halle is quite attractive. I cannot fathom why Tamala has been ignored this long, but to help straighten out the matter, I shall now bump Kelly Preston from my Hump Island (TM) list in her favor. And no, this is not simply at attempt at Racial Validation (TM), because I don't care.

The New Hump Island Docket:

1. Catherine Zeta Jones
2. Tamala Jones
3. Diane Lane
4. Kristina Kreuk (bumped Erika Christensen because I haven't seen her lately)
5. Natalie Portman
WC. Rachel Bilson

--ABC hired Justin Timberlake to host "The Thrill of Victory 2003", a special about the greatest sports moment of the year.


Someone explain this to me. Apparently, some Exec got up in front of everyone at a recent ABC meeting and dropped his plan.

"Yeah, here's what we're going to do: create this huge year in review type show about the greatest sports moments of 2003, because those are always popular. The twist is that we're going to hire JT to host it! Why? Because it will bring in the vaunted twelve to eighteen year-old female demographic while we secretly alienate our most profitable demographic, the 18-35 males. Is this a good idea or what? Huh? Huh?"

BRILLIANT! Standing ovation even! Perhaps we can get David Duke to host this year's Soul Train Awards! Or Lawrence "Hit Me Again Ike, and This Time Put Some Stank on It" Phillips to host the Men of Domestic Restraint Awards! Or how about Rush Limbaugh to MC the DARE Program Awards! Or...

Ah, I've run out of steam. You get the point.

--Why is this particular Blog so racially motivated? I just noticed this. Something must be on my mind, and dammit, whenever I figure out what that is I'll let you know.

--Speaking of Awards Shows (and straying from racially-subversive commentary for a moment), has anyone seen commercials for the 2003 DVD Extras Awards? It's an Awards Show where they literally give trophies away for the best DVD Bonus Materials.

I want to tell you all something, and this comes from a man who currently owns 175+ DVDs and has a necessity for buying them that borders on acute addiction: This is the dumbest, scraping-for-an-idea Sh*tty Awards Show in the History of Sh*tty Awards Shows. This is worse than the ESPYs.

The one great thing about it, however, is the way it's being promoted in TV ads. "See the stars come out for this star-studded bash with all the stars you've expected to see when stars come out for a star-studded Awards Show Bash. Stars." Then they show some of the "stars", the most prominent of which were the Olson Twins, followed by that dude, the guy who is married to Kelly Ripa, some girl with brown hair, and yes, Lou Diamond Phillips.

What the hell happened to Lou after La Bamba? Did he fall down and get lost? Apparently, not, because in the last few years he's cranked out a few hits, such as Bats, Absolon, Malevolent, Knight's Club, and the ill-fated TV Series Wolf Lake. Oooooh, I forgot though, he did "star" in Supernova, a film so embarrassing that it's director, Francis Ford Coppola, refused to have his name associated with it and had it literally stripped from the credits. By the way, in Supernova Lou played a character named Yerzy Penalosa.

Yerzy. Penalosa. True.

I think I had that name on a fake ID once. The state was New Dakota.

The good news for the 2003 DVD Extras Awards is that, with Lou Diamond Phillips in tow, they're only a Paris Hilton and a Richard Greco away from the Holy Trinity Talent Trifecta (TM).

Always be wary of an Awards Show that's taped in advance. "Taped in Advance" is producer speak for "We Don't Trust Putting So Many Stars in Such a Star-Studded Star Event Because Irreparable Harm Might Occur for the Network if We Don't Get the Chance to Edit Out All the Dead Air".


04 December 2003

GooseTown--The Official Sponsor of EndYear Snowstorm 2003


After a long Thanksgiving vacation, I'm safely back and running. Watch your knickers, it's about to snow like a motherf*cker.

--So I got the flu. Again. And again, just like with my allergy shot, I rationalized away getting a flu shot.

"Gee, I don't have any medical insurance, " I sez to myself, I sez. "Mayhap I'll save the $57 for a vaccination and pray to the Gods of Good Health that the influenza virus skips over me this year."

You can all guess what happened next. Flu bug again. This brings my record-chasing Days Between Sickness Index (TM) to 4.2. The Gods of Good Health can blow me, for time and time again they have forsaken me. Does anyone get sick in LA? Ever? I can't wait to find out that they don't. It should be sometime about the middle of next week when I get some rare virus, in hibernation since the end of the Incans, that makes my penis fall off.

--Speaking of my penis, it certainly won't fall off due to overuse inside a female. Because that's not happening. At all. The good news there is that I've developed quite the rapport with my left hand.

Unfortunately, this has led my family to start asking the questions that I suppose they ask any person who is 24 and single: "Geoffrey, how come you don't have a girlfriend?"

I could give them the standard answers, but these will only lead to more questions. More unfortunately, no matter what I say, the follow-up is always, "Well what kind of girl are you looking for?"

Why is it that people assume that A) you have to have a significant other and B) you are constantly looking for them? I'll tell you why--because females make up 98% of the conversating public (conversation that doesn't involve sports, that is) and 99% of those conversations revolve around relationships. They're obsessed with it. The most unhappy people in the world are those that are actively looking for a partner. Is there anything sadder than hearing someone grovel about how they "need somebody", as if they need another body in the room to validate their existence? It's these people that ask the questions, and these people that drive the conversations, and they infect others and then here you are, answering another stupid question.

I spoke with my friend Niki about this today. I will answer the question as simply as I did for her:

1. I'm not "hunting" for anyone.
2. If someone comes along that is pretty, in good shape, intelligent, common sensical (above all else, except pretty and in good shape), not vain and not obsessed with materiality, then I would gladly be in their graces.
3. What I would really like for the next four months is a stream of attractive females to pleasurably manipulate my sexual organs and then leave me alone.

I don't think that's too much to ask. Then again, I think Julia Stiles is hot, and everyone seems to disagree with me, so what the f*ck do I know?

--The lovely and talented Lisa D'Onfrio correctly surmised--in the most lengthy and rambling GooseTown Email to date--the Most Important Event in the History of the World (TM), which is a mere 191 days away....

This is the date on which the Olson Twins turn eighteen years of age. Check out the Countdown Clock. No, I'm not obsessed. Yes, I am quite excited.

Congrats Lisa, your DVD player is on it's way*.

(*--Denotes that a DVD player is not on it's way and you have in fact won nothing. Void where prohibited. Not valid in Arkansas. No purchase necessary.)

--Working at AE on Black Friday, I had a girl ask me for jeans in a size "12 Petite". Let's get something out of the way here, clothing manufacturers (and yes, this is quite tactless and insensitive, but what do you expect out of me at this point?):

If you go past a size 8, there is nothing "Petite" about you, and I don't care that it refers to the length of the jeans. Nothing. Petite. So, in order to be less Politically Correct and more Honest, I hereby recommend that instead of "Petite" for sizes 9+, we use the description "Troll".

"Hmmmm....can I see these in a 14 Troll?"

It's accurate. Maybe we wouldn't have such a weight problem in this country if we just shamed people.

--Did anyone watch The O.C. last night? Did you see Summer in the Wonder Woman costume? Did you see that? She just jumped over Anna as GooseTown's Official Choice for Seth (TM). Wow. Wow. What a performance. In other O.C. news, what the f*ck was that guy doing talking to Marissa at the psychiatrist's office? Are they planting the seeds for the inevitable Affair of Marissa already? And yes, I feel so girly right now that I'm fighting off the urge to pop Bon-Bons like aspirin.

Speaking of TV Land, I was tricked into watching (and by that I mean voluntarily tuned into) Smallville last night. The show did little for me, but Kristina Kreuk...Holy Weeping Jesus on the Cross. She, apparently, is aggressively trying to work her way onto my Hump Island list, and I just might have to let her in the door....

--I am almost inconsolably excited about a few upcoming films, the biggest two of which are Dodgeball (starring Vince Vaughn and Ben Stiller, in which the two compete with a team in a National Adult Dodgeball Tournament) and a CGI adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are.

I have a ton more to talk about, but the flu is taking my vitality rapidly and bed is a must.

"Yay, sleep! That's where I'm a Viking!"