29 November 2005



OK, this isn't the serious post I was talking about - I'm still working on that - but a set of random circumstances led to me rereading an old post and I'm going to share it for those of you (which is actually...yeah, all of you) who haven't bothered to work back through the archives. But first, I want to bring up my new favorite word/term.

Previously, you knew my new favorite word to be "defenestrate", which means "to throw someone through a window" (thank you again, Jenny Kansas). However, this evening I was introduced to "formicophilia".

Formicophilia: to experience a state of sexual arousal by having small insects crawl over one's own genitals or the genitals of another.

Fan. Tastic.

Of course, the horribly perveted wheels in my messed-up little mind immediately started spinning and I began to think....

If you're a formicophiliac, and you get crabs...is that like the apex of your being? Could anything possibly turn you on more? Do you get that treated? It's literally a self-replicating, constant system of tiny insects crawling over your genitals. Do you just say "f*ck it", lock yourself in your room and consider the fact that you've topped out on life? I'm VERY interested to know about this. Personally, a swarm of tiny insects crawling on my penis is perhaps one of the Top Five Most Traumatizing Situations I Can Imagine (TM), but I'm dying to know if there are bug freaks out there actively trying to contract crabs in order to fill out their life's Master Plan.

If anyone knows, get back to me.

Naturally, thinking about Sexually Transmitted Diseases got me thinking about my buddies from college (If I were speaking live this is where the drummer's rim shot would come crashing in and I'd look like Johnny Carson. Heyo! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand...scene.). About two years ago - back when I was funny, clever, and relevant - I wrote a post about heading down to DC for a visit with said buddies. I refound it tonight and thought I'd reprint it here for your reading pleasure. It's long but it's worth it, if not for many points, for one moment in particular.

This post contains what is, hands down, the Greatest Comeback in the History of the World (TM). That's right, it's mine - I trademarked it, even though it was spoken by someone else. It's not just that it was a great comeback - it's the structure of the conversation. It went statement, dig, comeback, and then MASSIVE comeback topper. You'll know when you see it. And you'll agree. I want to make sure that everyone knows that the speed with which this conversation was conducted was lightning quick, an impressive feat because neither of the parties involved were very sober nor are they very intelligent.

Enjoy (Original Post Date: 21 January 2004):


I don't get to drink much anymore, so this Saturday's trip down to visit some buddies in D.C. was a nice change of pace.

The stage was set thusly: my buddy Loftus lives with our buddy Adam and my two former roommates Kyle and Louie. Kyle's girlfriend Ni...er, Karyn is basically the fifth roommate and house mascot in Arlington, VA (NOTE: I didn't notice at the time I wrote this - and no, I did not just intend for that to rhyme - that this last comment comes off as a dig against Karyn. It's not at all - you know I love you Karyn :) Back to the reproduced post.). Add to the mix that one Steven Perdue, Oil Magnate and General Ruby Burgoyne, Electrician are down for the weekend and, well...here we go...

--Ruby calls me as I hit I-95 on the way down. He informs me they will wait for me and that we are going to a strip club. Joy.

--I arrive to pleasantries and good cheer. Louie does not want to attend the strip club outing and Kyle and Adam are involved in a day-long Texas Hold 'Em tourney down the street. Ruby and Steve have looked up the strippers for Camelot on the Internet. I walk downstairs to find them spooning on Loftus's bed watching Good Will Hunting. Spooning. Ben and Matt would be proud.

By the way, Loftus is toiling at work on a Saturday after being out until roughly 3 AM the night before, hammered, watching an 80's cover band called Leg Warmer. Reports detail that Mr. Loftus was less than three-deep from the stage at all times, pumping his fists and singing along to every song all whilst exclaiming to all around, "THIS IS MY SH*T!!!!!" As my buddy Craig would note, Loftus is this morning likely performing his duties in an extreme haze, still thinking about Bananarama.

--Perdue, Ruby and I decide that the best way to get downtown to Camelot is by Metro. Heading for the subway, we park in a garage in Stafford Plaza. We ask a desk attendant in the building how to get to the Metro. He mumbles something in an non-English dialect and points to our left. We walk to our left. Two bathrooms and an Employee's Only closet. We head back, asking for the Metro. He grumbles louder and more unintelligibly and points us back. We go back. Two bathrooms, Employee's Only closet. We look at each other. Head back, ask for Metro. He gets up, physically leads us around the corner, where we FINALLY see...

Two bathrooms and a motherf*cking Employee's Only closet.

I'm laughing. Perdue is thinking. Ruby doesn't know where he is. After a moment of standing we walk back and Ruby says, "Look, there's nothing there, we just need to get to the Metro Station." The guy fold his hands and says, in perfectly broken English, "I apologize, I thought you said bathroom. Second Floor to left." Thanks.

Arriving at the station, Perdue and Ruby decide to share a card. Perdue puts his card through first, successfully. Ruby tries to follow him. Bupkus. Nada. See Station Manager. Remember this. They let Ruby through.

The train ride is filled with discussion about where we are going. We are to take the Orange Line from Ballston to Metro Center, where we pick up the Red Line and head to DuPont Circle. Easy. Ruby has it written down. Perdue has it in his head that there is no such thing as Metro Center, that every stop is a Metro Center. He convinces Ruby. For twenty minutes they ask back and forth, "Are we on the right train? Metro Center isn't even a stop. That was the metro center. Where are we going?" To break the monotony, Perdue offers Ruby $500 to drink an entire cup of his chew spit. Ruby refuses. This is the first thing in history I have ever seen to disgust Ruby.

--We arrive in Metro Center. Perdue says nothing. Ruby must see the Station Manager again. On the train to DuPont, Ruby tells us he'd like to fly on the President's Private Jet, Air One. Somewhere, Nelly's ears are burning for the all the wrong reasons.

--Exiting at DuPont Circle, I get to ride the tallest escalator I have ever seen. Upon hitting the street, we stand turning on the heels of our shoes for two minutes figuring out which way M Street is. Luckily, we begin walking the right direction, though Ruby is "suspicious" the entire time.

--We arrive at Camelot. There are a few things at work here.

First, I am sober. Going to a strip club sober is tough for me because I find the whole thing extremely funny. You can walk into any bar in the world and see bottles, beer, people, etc. But walking into a Gentleman's Establishment and seeing all that plus boobies...well, I think it's hysterical. Therefore, the second I enter one I have a big, goofy smile on my face, and immediately people think I'm some kind of pervert. They're not wrong, but I just don't want them thinking that in the first five minutes.

Second, it wasn't even bright daylight outside, but the inside of this place is f*cking DARK. I can't see a thing as I'm walking in and I'm banging into chairs all over the place. The bouncer must have sensed this and sat us as far away from The Pole as possible.

I have to say that I as wildly impressed by Camelot. For a Saturday afternoon in the dead of winter all of the performers were quite attractive, and what more can you ask for? Also wonderful was the fact that, while some of the ladies had rather robust mammary areas, not a single one had even a drop of Silicon in them. Lovely. And somehow, I'm keeping a (moderately) straight face. All is well. I am, however, pounding drinks. I'm on Mixed Drink One and Beer Two before Perdue and Ruby finish their first drink. Our waitress, Hot Jamie, keeps making sarcastic comments when I order such as, "Oh, did I forget to bring your drink last time?" Nice try, not going to help your tip. But let me state that the fact you are waitressing in your underpants will.

At least one stripper and the old chick behind the bar comment about how cute Ruby and his hair are, both asking if he's even old enough to be in the place. Ruby is 25 and the eldest of us all. He takes it in stride.

After each dance, if you haven't approached The Pole while they are dancing to offer a tip, they come to your table expecting to get one. This is fine. I just wanted to note that, when you first get there, you feel awkward and sheepish. You calmly slide your dollar in their garter belt and say only a quick thank you. Perdue can't even look them in their faces. He's actually just waving the dollar in the air and focusing on the cushion behind him. And if they make eye contact with you from the stage? F*cking forget it.

Then, as the day progresses and the drinks start flowing, your comments get better and better. Here are some of the ones I threw out personally, feeling the buzz:

"That was technically perfect."
"You were the best dancer of the group."
"Thanks for dancing to Coldplay, here's two." (EDITOR'S NOTE: You know you are in alcohol-related trouble when you start announcing how much you are tipping the strippers.)
"You were our favorite."
"Thank you for the entertainment." (Christ help me.)
"I enjoyed the shaking." (This one made me really afraid I was going to be thrown out by my neck.)

From Ruby:

"I liked that thing you did with your ass."

All in all, we spent about four hours and a hundred and fifty bucks there altogether. We get in touch with Loftus and we are headed to The ESPN Zone to meet him.

--On the cab ride to ESPN, Ruby calls his girlfriend. At the end of a conversation that was way too long, he gets roped into the "I love you". Guess who we made fun of the for the last five minutes? Nothing like watching one of your buddies squirm, especially when you're loaded.

--At ESPN Zone we concentrate on beer, Golf, Football, and Basketball. I'm not going to talk much about basketball, but you can figure that, since I'm the worst basketball player in history and I'm stupid drunk, I didn't do too well. I did establish the second-highest score of the day in football, however.

--Eating dinner at said Zone, Loftus says something clever. Ruby responds with, "Oh good one, that was a Widdly Tiddle." With Ruby you're never quite sure, but we think he was going for a "Witty Tidbit". Whatever he intended this becomes my official vote for our Fantasy Football Trophy: The Widdly Tiddle Cup. Mark it down.

--On the Metro back to the car, Ruby once again must see the Station Manager. She asks, "Are you trying to use the same Metro Card?" Ruby replies, "Yeah, but the damn thing doesn't work, and I've been having to see the Station Manager all day." She informs Ruby you can't use the same gate the person you are sharing with just used to come through. No sooner does she tell him this than he tries again to use the same gate. Later, as the train is approaching and we are waiting to board, Ruby nearly falls into the track and Loftus has to pull him back.

--During beer pong an hour or so later, Ruby and Perdue escalate their Your Mom Verbal Battle (TM).

(EDITOR'S NOTE: WARNING. The following exchange contains graphic, awful language and mental images. Please be warned. Seriously. This is a very serious warning.)

RUBY(makes a cup): Oooh, slippery when wet.
PERDUE: Yeah, your mom was pretty slippery when I f*cked her last night.
RUBY: That's because my dad's big c*ck stretched out her p*ssy for you.
PERDUE: I wasn't f*cking her p*ssy.


--Loftus, Ruby, Perdue and myself head to a bar in Georgetown. Georgetown is beautiful, and a Georgetown bar can only rightfully be compared to what you might expect at a Hahvad Bah, complete with equations on the walls and sh*t. Every guy--repeat: EVERY GUY--was dressed in a sweater with a button-down underneath. Rock and Roll.

We head upstairs, where two things happen. First, I run into a friend of my ex-girlfriend. Kristina is a cool girl and lives in D.C. now, and we had a nice conversation. But I must explain the conversation we had. Here is an excerpt of our discussion:

K: So, I was told to go to your website and I did.
G: Great! What did you think.
K: Well, I want to know, do you really think you're smarter than everyone?
G: Yes.
K: Really? Because you went to JMU, and we all went to JMU, and you think you're smarter than people who went to JMU?

(EDITOR'S NOTE: At this point I'm only interested in avoiding a situation. I'm drunk, she's drunk, no reason to start anything when it's been such a good day.)

G: Let's just say I think I'm a better thinker and better able to express myself than others.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Then she pisses me off.)

K: OK, because I was going to say, you misspell a lot of words.
G: Really? Like which ones?
K: Um, like...awkward.
G: A-W-K-W-A-R-D.
K: No, it's A-C-K-W-A-R-D.
G: Eh...I think you're wrong.
K: No I'm not.
G: OK, well you go spellcheck that Monday and get back to me OK. (And I love this...)Maybe you're right.

I change the subject and eventually we decide to go find our friends. People, I want to bring up a point. I know English. I don't misspell words, especially with the aid of spellcheck. My grammar is stellar. Every once in a while, I mistype a word, which is quite different. The lesson: don't come up to me anywhere at any time and criticize my work on a fact of which you are quite wrong. And people wonder why I think I'm smarter than most? Jesus.

A-W-K-W-A-R-D. Kristina, it was very nice talking to you, but that's how you spell it.

Later in the night, I am walking to the bathroom when I get bumped into an adorable little Asian girl. I turn around and put up my hand, and say, "Sorry about that." She's double-fisting, probably not thinking rightly, and she hip-checks me with surprising force. I look back, and she realizes what she's done. She flees, absolutely flees, and hides behind one of her friends who is laughing hysterically. On my way back, I see her again and walk up. She looks frightened. I apologize again, letting her know that someone had pushed me into her. Her friend speaks up in her defense, saying she is drunk and didn't mean it. I assure them that I'm not mad in the slightest, I just wanted her to know I didn't intend to jack her in the first place. So the adorable little Asian girl comes up to me and launches into a diatribe that went something like...

"Well, OK, if you say that it happened accidentally, then I believe you, but you still shouldn't bump into girls, I mean if you're a guy you're supposed to keep your balance and not do that, but it's OK, I mean as long as it was an accident..."

Her cell phone rings, and she holds it up.

Now I very, very rarely ever get to say anything clever. Usually I think about things I should have said afterward in a George Costanza-ish way. But this night, I finally had my glory. With Ruby and Perdue listening to the proceedings two feet away, and this girl's friends watching from just as close, I finally get my shot.

With everyone watching, she raises up her phone, and I say:

"No no, that's OK, I don't want your number."

I must have smiled as wide as the Mississippi. Perdue and Ruby lose it. Her friends lose it. She is speechless in a, "No, I wasn't, I mean I didn't..." manner as I walk away. For that ephemeral moment in time, I feel like a winner. It lasts for no more than four seconds, but still dammit, that's something.

--The night is capped off by myself and a sober Louie driving to the Silver Diner, one of my favorites. Everyone is drunk and ordering either breakfast or burgers. When I order the meatloaf, which is spectacular, the waiter looks at me like I have five heads. I later return to the house and pass out on a semi-damp couch.

You just don't get days like that very often.

Everyone have a Widdly Tiddle.


28 November 2005



[NOTE: I posted this just a little while ago as a Bulletin on MySpace. It got such a great reaction tht RyRy suggested I post it on my blog as well. So I'm doing that. I'll be back later in the week with a pretty serious entry - something I haven't really been able to write about yet but that I'm going to buck up and tackle. Until then, I hope anyone who thinks Astrology is a "science" or a "valid field of study" gets The Herpes (TM).]

OK, we've all seen that crap Astrology Bulletin that's going around trying to convince us all that we're wonderful people and that just because we were born on...apparently ANY...day of the year there's something great about us. We're all intelligent. We're all great in bed. Sometimes we're a leader, and sometimes we're shy. Yee haa.

Astrology is the world's oldest form of bullsh*t, around even before male cows began to deficate. It's trash, it's supersitition, and yet some people still follow it religiously because they can't figure out how to control their own lives - they have to figure that someone else is doing it for them. It's for these people that I present Goose's Real Astrology System (TM), and if you pass this on I expect full credit.

Learn your past, present and future below:

You're a dimwit. People try to talk to you and then seconds later realize they might as well converse with a pig that's rotating on a spit. You've been good at two things your entire life: standing and sitting, and you've even failed at that occasionally. Your future consists of being cloned to farm out organs to those who will make more of an impact on society. You really dig cheese. Jesus might love you, but everyone else thinks you're a c*nt.

You're smart, but only in a way that will never apply to anything legitimate, like being good at Cranium but only on Thursday mornings. You like to cook but you burn sh*t constantly because you can't pay attention to a g*ddamned thing. Your dog hates you (the only sign of the Zodiac to suffer this fate) and you write appalingly bad detective novels in your spare time. Occasionally you break out the Hugo Boss when you don't feel like taking a shower.

You're oblivious to the fact that your sign was also the inspiration for one of the worst automobiles of all time (T. Rock, no angry emails); for years you've unknowlingly looked upon this as a compliment. You'd be one hell of a soccer player if you weren't fat and lazy. You're constantly making other people smile, but only because you resemble Corky from LIFE GOES ON. Don't bother calling your parents tomorrow - for weeks they've been telling their friends about the time they tried to leave you at the Four Corners on what was supposed to be a "Family Vacation".

Like all the horrific Aries specimens out there, car companies cannot resist naming a piece of plastic on wheels after your personal piece of the Zodiac (this particular model, of which, was far inferior to its cousin - the Mercury Cougar). Face the facts: if you're a male Taurus you've got a small c*ck and if you're a female you either have lopsided breasts or your vagina smells like Hydrocholoric Acid. If you've been laid it's been by mistake at a very dark, very drunk college party or for money in a third world country. Don't bother playing the lottery, even though you're sure that "your day" is about to come. It's not; more likely, you'll be hit by a bus.

Somehow the most inept of all Zodiac signs. On the Intelligence Scale of Life, the bottom being terra firma and the top being the Moon, you are the Marianas F*cking Trench. Scientists study you thinking Neanderthals have repopulated the planet in select herds. No one knows why you have excessive body hair, but it's the main goal of modern science to do something about it. Please stop approaching your neighbors; they just think you want to eat their children. Forming a Hitler Fan Club was not a good idea, and shame on you.

You think you're pretty great, and if you weren't such as assh*le you could be. If it's cool to drive a Porsche like a pretentious d*uchebag (and it isn't), you somehow make it less cool than driving a Miata with sparkly butterfly sitckers on the windshield. Destined to be Deputy Mayor of a small town who gets indicted for racketeering. You're not a virgin, but that's only because you've visited "exotic locales", which is fancy speak for "land with no sexual assault laws". It's not totally your fault - your drunk father DID piss all over your stuffed animals while you slept, so you get a permanent Hall Pass.

Jesus Christ, how do you even live with yourself? Your mother was a wh*re and your father let her beat him - how does that even happen anymore? Sure, you're pretty and you can do fun things with your tongue, but did that ever stop anyone from throwing you under the truck? You ask too many questions, you don't listen to the answers, and even though you're physically appealing people are pretty damned sure you're borderline mentally retarded. You work at Fashion Bug if you're a girl and if you're a guy you masturbate on the side of the highway for thrills. No one is amused. Please get help.

Oooooooooh, your sign is the twin! Big f*cking deal - you can stop telling people this at any time, as if you'll convince them that you somehow got two signs for the price of one. It's not our fault that your nipples are inverted and that your third grade teacher touched you inappropriately. In fact, come to think of it, you touch yourself inappropriately. Stop the cycle. Sadly, the rest of the world thinks you're worthwhile because you're in a band or because you wrote a book about Asians in Crisis, and now you're some pop culture guru. But the stars know the truth: you have chlamydia. And that burning sensation when you pee doesn't mean you're "hot".

Your sign sounds like an new Sexually Transmitted Disease, but unlike your Gemini Brothers and sisters you don't have one yet (2008, Detroit, in the back of a conversion van - write it down). You seem to genuinely care about other people, and that's why you've been corrupted by some horrific rightist/leftist organization. No, no one in their right mind thinks that animals should be able to drive/black people should be put back into slavery. Everyone nods their head when you speak, pretending that they're moved by your fantatical claims, but really they're just wondering how to dial 9-1-1 on their cell phone without you dousing them with fake blood. You think Stove Top Stuffing is a food group and you drool when you talk too fast. You're a mouth-breather.

Though you probably haven't realized it yet, your sign is an omen because it's actually TWO diseases in one: cancer (sorry chief), the icon of which is a crab (that's gotta hurt). You were either the star QB on your high school football team or the head cheerleader; now you're just a lonely b*stard lamenting your fate and unable to tell anyone you're actually a hermaphrodite (similarly, you've convinced yourself that "Hermaphrodite" is actually the Greek God of F*ckin' Chicks). You run stop signs without thinking twice and collect Care Bears in your spare time. That screenplay you're writing about the impending war between cafeteria workers and the Thundercats ain't comin' off too well, and your job at the Christmas Tree Lot is, well...seasonal. Good luck with your enflamed testicle/labia.

You're a f*cking sea dweller - what else is there? Concurrently you have bad eyesight and resemble the Gorton's Fisherman, which is OK if you're a male but slightly awkward in the social arena if you're a female...and God knows there are plenty of you. You have a kind nature but all vestiges of that are lost in the fact that you seem to be unable to stop molesting your niece. Everyone wishes you would get a car because you leave a stain in the backseat of other's vehicles when you bum a ride. You're going to die alone, painfully, while watching the TBS marathon of A CHRISTMAS STORY on some December 24th. You know the year, you just won't admit it to yourself. Your greatest strength is your ability to ascertain and divulge someone's true nature; it's also your biggest weakness and the reason everyone refers to you as "F*cking Scary (Insert Your Name Here)".

Unlike everyone else, you're a winner. You constantly win. You're attractive and you smell good all the time, even after you've bathed in vinegar and dead babies. If you're a guy you've got a huge penis and if you're a female your t*ts sit up at full attention. Everyone envies you. You're going to be successful beyond reproach, causing everyone that hates you (which are only a very few) to spread rumors about you having genital warts, but you'll crush their spirits when you have them killed by the Yakuza. Don't ever worry about money - you're going to be so g*ddamn well-liked that people will literally throw themselves in front of a raging bull just to buy you a shot. Chicks? You f*ck 'em and don't even bother to take names (replace "chicks" with "ladies" if you're a female). Britney Spears blew you when she was hot but you wouldn't let her tell anyone because you didn't think she was cool enough.

***I hope you learned something valuable about yourselves. Now stop sending me bullsh*t Horoscopes because I'm too smart to believe that they have any basis in reality.


14 November 2005



Sit down. Hang out. This one's gonna be a doozy.

Ah. Ha ha. My life. I think I may have alluded to this fact in previous posts, but let's go ahead and spell it out in plain English: the last, mmmmmm...3.5 months have been the most trying of my entire life. I'm not in pain. I'm not in anguish. I'm not sick, for about the first time ever. My life certainly doesn't suck. But it's been more than stressful. There are things going on around me that I haven't talked about to anyone - not even my beloved roommates or family members - and I'm pretty excited for the day when they either don't exist or cease to weigh on me like I do now.

But here's the thing - I haven't dealt with any of these things very well within myself. I haven't processed my emotions. I haven't made an outlet. I haven't made "me" time. I've tried to ignore them or, worse yet, pretend that they don't exist and that the world is an eternally sunny place. It's not. That's not a bad thing; in fact, it's quite a good thing, because without the sour, the sweet just ain't as sweet, right? I'm a big believer in that. What has happened, though, is that I've gone back to being someone I really, really hate. Someone that I tried to leave behind when I left home for college. Someone I literally despise with every fiber of my being.

I have re-become The Great Accomodater (TM).

Who is TGA? Oh, you know this guy pretty well. Always smiling, even when he has damn good reason not to. Always offering his services, not only when people don't need them but when he doesn't have them to offer. Always the gentleman, even when he should be telling people to fuck the fuck off. I loathe this guy, and you do too. But mostly I loathe him because he gets walked all over. Why would I become this guy? Maybe it's a subconscious belief in karma, that if I just try to be Mother Theresa and make everyone happy that some metaphysical power source will come and make the Bad Men stop dancing. And what does an attitude like that lead to? Oh...yeah, I already said that up there...it leads to me getting walked all over.

It would literally take me several hands on which to count the number of people I've let saunter, sashay and jig over my pathetic little carcass the last few moons. I've acquiesced. I've bequeathed. I've done other giving words that involve the usage of the letter "Q" to the point where I've become the Nice Guy That Finishes Last. And Sweet Holy Jesus Christ in Heaven, am I tired of that. Not only am I tired of that, I'm too fucking good to be that guy. And I owe it to myself to walk the hell away from him.

Here's a perfect example of what a pussy I've become. Now on a Problem Scale of 1-10, "1" being a non-factor in my daily life and "10" being soul-shattering to the point it nearly makes me weep at the thought (and trust me, my Issues run all numerals right now), this Issue is about a "5", so it's a perfect reference point. Backstory: I'm going to be vague on purpose, as I'm not trying to embarrass anyone or get sued for libel, but suffice to say this person was someone I cared about enough to want to protect/appease/make happy. In a situation that was not only foreign to me but unfair and eventually a burden, I bent over backwards to accomodate their...well, let's call them "erratic"...wishes. As time went on I didn't get any of the relatively meager things I was asking for (which was not without a lack of trying, I must admit) but I without fail continued to support these wishes. At the time of my most recent idiocy, I had not spoken to this person in about three weeks.

So I see this person out one night, and at first everything seemed cool. No bad blood (as there was no reason for such), no animosity, no apparent friction. Splendid. Sensing the mood was...human...I attempted to engage in normal conversation a few times. Nothing deep, nothing graphic - some what have you been up to's, how have you been's, the whole nine. The conversation sucked, but me, being The Great Accomodator, figured the distance was because of something I said or did. Was I holding my fork wrong? Was the song in the background bringing up bad vibes? When I thought about it later that night I was worried, feeling that perhaps I wasn't nice enough or that I didn't show enough enthusiasm for the subject matter or, worse yet, that I showed too much. So what should I do? What did I do?

Heyo, that's right - I called to apologize.

I. Called. To apologize.

Fast forward to the next morning. As I begin to recall the night previous's events, I started to notice a trend. I was civil, collected, and normal. I asked questions because I legitimately wanted to know the answers to them. I was, in a word, genuine. The problem was not on my end. Where I was genuine, this other person was fake. When they answered my question it was in something of a halting manner, a tone that one usually reserves for a hyperactive five year-old that won't stop asking questions during a movie. Where I just wanted to make a mends and keep a touchy situation at a decidedly non-awkward level (a situation which, I must admit, I didn't fuck up in the first place), this person wanted to get away from me like I had leprosy or The Herpes (TM). But the kicker - and holy shit, the three of you who read this blog will love this - was when, not once but TWICE, this person looked at someone else in the room, referencing me, with a motherfucking eye roll. A roll of the eyes. Twice. And, as The Great Accomodator, do you know what I thought at the time?

"What did I do wrong?"

No no no, you can stop laughing...I'm dead to the bone serious. This is the fool that I have become. The guy that, in order to try to keep his guard up, lets it down completely. In that, I have contributed to a situation where, over the course of a few weeks, my private life has been turned into little less than a gossip column, speculation has been made to my sanity, I've been lied to, had lies told about me, and have, as I have detailed, been walked over like a rug. Sometimes perhaps with good friends involved. It's amazing, to think about people you don't know (and maybe a few that you do) talking about how pathetic you are.

But it's devastating to realize that they're right. That you have become pathetic. That you're the World's Last Bastion of Jackassery.

That ends now.

If there's one thing I've learned the hard way - a few times, I'm a little embarrassed to admit - it's that you ain't getting anywhere on the road of life just by trying to make other people happy. Sometimes it's not your goddamn job. Sometimes it's out of your goddamn control. And a lot of times the person just isn't goddamn worth it, if only because they'll let you squirm knowing that they owe you only a modicum of opportunity - a minute of thier time to get shit straight.

Fuck these people, that's what I say. Fuck 'em all. Life's too short to sit around worrying about everyone else's feelings all the time. I'm not saying this and other events have soured me on people; quite the contrary, in fact - they make you appreciate the people in your life who would never do such a thing that much more. I'm not saying I'll be less compassioante, less caring, or less willing to help someone out; I'm gonna just be more careful deciding who those people are. I'm going to be cutting out some people who drag me down or make things more difficult for me. I'm gonna make November/December '05 official Geoff Be Gettin' Introspective and Deconstructive Time (TM).

I hope I never have to say anything like this for the rest of my life, really, but for the next couple weeks, whoever you might be...be careful about the way you approach me. I'm not a violent person, I don't hold grudges, and I don't stay mad long. But I can be rather blunt and forthright and, frankly, there's not gonna be much of a honeymoon period where I'll be worried about outing or embarrassing someone. Don't be the one that ends up on the short end of that stick, because everyone's got their little locked-away secrets, and it's bad, bad news to go up against someone who just doesn't care and doesn't have anything to lose.

You all know the Don Henley song...

>>What did I know?
Those days are gone forever
I should just let them go -
But...<< href="http://www.nowheresville.us/">here, so go figure.

--Remember a few months ago when I laid into PETA for being a terrorist organization? First of all, I'm pissed to have received not a SINGLE piece of hate mail for that - you people are g*ddamned lazy. But here's a great website that tracks nefarious organizations like PETA and tells you what they're really up to. Great read, great information, and they can back it up.

--Why are people so excited to see KING KONG? All the requisite film d*cuhes are freaking out in droves, thinking this is going to be the greatest thing ever. I'm not gonna see it, so I'm not gonna specualte as to whether or not it's going to be a good movie or not, but I think it says a lot about American film culture when so many losers (who think they know all there is to know about films but really know nothing) are so collectively agog over something so trivial.

Other movies I could care less about seeing this Holiday Season:

RENT (I hope the people who made this movie and the musical that spawned it choke to death, excluding Rosario Dawson, who is invited to marry me instead)
MATCH POINT (Woody Allen sucks)

And I'm sure a few others. JARHEAD was great, by the way.

--On the heels of movies, please please please go to CannedJam and read James's treatise on Serial Killer Movies - it's one of the funniest, most spot-on pieces I've ever read. Well done, Matarese.

--OK, so I'm a huge LAGUNA BEACH fan and I'm not afraid to admit it (and before you ask, I'm for LC, and Kristen sucks). That said...I have to talk about the episode where this Deiter kid had the benefit for the families whose houses got destroyed by the mudslide.

First of all, I don't want to make it seem like I'm coming down on the kids who did this fashion show/concert to raise money - it was a damn nice thing to do and, frankly, I'm not a good enough person to have even thought of comprehending doing something like that, much less in possession of the not-lazy gene required to actually put it into action. So Kudos on that end. However...I mean, ya'll realize it's f*cking Laguna Beach, right? That if you have a house there, it's not only for damn sure insured but you're not going to be begging in the street if something happens to it because you have enough money to live there in the first place, right? Wasn't there...I mean, c'mon, there's gotta be SOMETHING else...like, I don't know...anything else...that you can direct your enthusiasm towards?

"We're having a benefit for the Laguna Beach victims."

Just read that sentence a few times, and if you're not laughing your ass off by the third go-round, you're either dead or without a very basic sense of humor.

But then there's the Highest of the High Unintentional Comedy that is Talan singing. Wow. Wowee wow wow. This kid is currently persuing a music career in LA.

If you've seen it, you know what I mean, and if you haven't you need to see it. I suggest setting the volume very low, and you might want to, additionally, hide in a bunker in case of stray, shrapnel-like flat notes.

--I got to thinking the other day about how long it's been since I've been so excited about a girl that I assigned a song to her. Actually, it never happens like that - you get to that certain point with someone where you're all soupy about them or whatever and then BAM!, one day you hear a song and for the rest of your life you associate it with that Special Lady Friend (TM). Sometimes that song then becomes "Your Song" - actually, probably, most of the time. But isn't it weird what triggers such a thing?

The thought occured to me when I heard, randomly the other day, the first ever song that I associated with a girl I had a crush on - for whatever reason (I wracked my brain trying to think WHY this particular song made that particular impression but I couldn't) it happend to be "London" by Third Eye Blind.

(NOTE: I will NEVER apologize to anyone for liking Third Eye Blind. Apparently, in most social circles, being a guy and admitting to a fondness for this band is akin to admitting, "Yes, I like to watch male kiddie porn while reading Mein Kampf,", which is something I'll never understand and don't care to. Think I'm a p*ssy? F*ck you, I don't care.)

Anyway, after that I went back and plucked from my memory the songs I had applied to a few select females over the years, and here's what I came up with:

--"London", Third Eye Blind (I didn't even really like this girl that much, so I have no idea where this came from, but she was the first person to ever move me to orgasm without taking off a single piece of my clothing. It's a great story, and if you ever get to hear it that means I really, really like you. I think the fact that I can't remember the association is that I heard the song two years after the event happ...NO! Wait, I've got it! She was born in London! God, what a fantastic epiphone! That's never happened before in the middle of a post...)

--"Talk Tonight", Oasis (One of those that became "Our Song". It's amazing to think about how little I like her now and how much I complained about her at the time and then to consider that the good memories outweigh the bad like 75/25.)

--"Slide Away", Oasis (Another "Our Song". This one built up very slowly over a semester, then hit hard and was over in less than two months. But holy sh*t was it good while it lasted. Best nude body I have ever seen ever. Hands down. God college was great. And if you think you're noticing an Oasis pattern...well, there sort of was one, but it's over.)

--"She Will Be Loved", Maroon 5 (Hardcore heartbreak here, easily the worst I've experienced. Isn't it odd how fondly you look back on some of that stuff? If you had told me at the time that not only would I get over it within an acceptible amount of time but that I'd find myself better off for having gone through it, I would have punched you in the mouth and then cried while slightly drooling. You know when you do that, like you cry but your mouth hangs open and a little drool comes out? You know this thing?

Wow. No one can ruin a moment like I can.)

--"Cold Hard Bitch", Jet (Now this looks pretty bad, but trust me, there's a very positive connotation here. Aside from other qualities that I really dug, this girl had/has an amazing set of hips, so when we were kinda working through our thing that line "She was shakin' her hips/And that was all that I need" really stuck with me. That sound entirely superficial, and yeah, OK, it is, but I liked her well beyond that so just leave me to my memories.)

That last one was the most recent, and that was nearly two years ago. I've met girls that I've got on with since then, and quite well, but I guess not to a point where it was either emotionally impactful enough or during a point where I was listening to a lot of music. After a great mix CD the other night I'm in a pretty black and white Punk phase, so there's a chance that my next lucky infatuation gets associated with an All-American Classic like "C*nt-Kick My Crippled Mother and Sh*t On My Testes". Which is nice for everyone.

I'm curious to know what songs you've associated with certain girls in your lives, and beyond that I'm hypercurious to know what songs girls tag to guys. I'll leave you with that homework assignment - either leave a comment or email me. Until next time, I should just let it go -