SkyMall: So many choices

SkyMall. We all know it. We all secretly love it. It’s a stack of papers we begin examining while the plane is still on the ground, and we’re too anti-social to talk to the stranger sitting next to us. You flip through a few pages and start to see some interesting shit. It’s like ‘FUCK I invented that in my 6th grade science fair! That prick better not be getting rich off this shit!’ Then you consider a life of luxury thanks to your doggy-bed-ramps just flying off the shelves. The factory cant pump them out fast enough. Shipping internationally… to the farthest corners of the earth – everyone wants a ramp so their 17 year-old cocker spaniel can crawl up onto the bed without jumping, and walk down without jumping off, breaking her back on impact, and dying right there on the carpet.

It would be an awesome thing if SkyMall had a sweepstakes and the winner got to just flip through the magazine and say ‘yes’ ‘yes’ ‘yes’ ‘yes’ to everything they wanted without having to seriously consider whether or not they truly wanted an exact, functioning replica of the Marauders Map. Annnd that’s a shitty example… bc that would be fucking awesome.

Let’s cover a few of the more ridiculous items featured in the magazine.

1. This fucking thing. The notorious Sky Rest.
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Does anyone know anyone who has every used one of these. We’ve all looked at this picture and reacted in similar ways. This guy is out. He’s had a looong day. I wish that shirt didnt match the headrests so well. Seems to make the situation weird. I also wish he wasn’t a middle aged man with a mustache. Why not use an attractive young professional? I mean, this guy may be snoozing gently thanks to the SkyRest…but maybe he just took 2 xanax and slammed a cup of red wine en route to an 8 hour nap that starts in LA and ends in Maui. We’ll never know the truth will we?

So I assume you have to blow this thing up after you get on the plane right? Hope you’re not sitting next to someone you’re trying to impress…bc that’s a ‘fuck you i’m doing this’ move that’s pretty tough to recover from.

‘yeah it’s like a inflatable pillow thing that you rest on tray and lean against. yeah it’s pretty big….works great though.’

Then you spend 5 minutes puffing on this thing until you’re red in the face. Then you order a red wine and slam it while the stewardess is handing your neighbors their drinks. Then you order another before she walks away and drink it casually while listening to Enya’s ‘Orinico Flow’ and considering your complex vacation itinerary. Then you take half a xanax bar and wake up wherever it is that you’re going. THAT’S how you handle lengthy flights.

(side note: how awesome and underrated is Enya? unreal.)

2. This garden decoration.

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Ahh yes. The Zombie of Montclaire Moors.

Who in their right mind would put this thing in their yard?

‘ahh yes Marsha i just love what you’ve done with the zucchini patch this year, it looks like they’re almost ready to-OH MY GOD!!! 

And Aunt Margaret stumbles backward into the Koi Pond and cracks her femur. Ruins her whole goddamn day. That Zombie of Montclaire. Just lurking behind the zucchini patch, begging someone to pull him from his grave. Is that what he’s doing? Is he looking for help…or is he looking for blood? Who knows.

3. The Hand Reflexology Massager

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The array of personal care products in SkyMall is completely astounding. They have everything from zit sucking vacuums to anti-hair loss laser helmets. Don’t even start on the arthritic and bunion relieving devices. Some of those are beyond strange. Medieval almost. And then there’s this thing. A little machine that massages your hands for you. What’s to say this thing doesn’t short circuit and turn your hand into a spatula? Not sure. Not sure at all. Remember this scene? Yeah, no thanks.

If i want a ‘hand massage’, I’m prob headed down to the double dragon thai massage parlor for a 15 dollar journey that ends with a swan dive to the bottom of a warm, milk chocolate river of desire. I actually heard about a guy recently who went to an NYC rub-and-tug joint and ended up getting locked in a concrete room in the basement where he was robbed, and then got blasted with a firehose for several minutes before his assailants unlocked the door to the alley through which he limped and assumedly sprinted back to his apartment for a 72 hour shame nap.

But yeah, i’m not gonna buy this little contraption. In what setting is it appropriate to use this thing? Just slap this thing on your desk at work and stuff your mitt in there for 10 minutes while reading some stupid sophisticated liberal bullshit article on Gawker about which not one person on this planet should give a shit? No way. That’s out of line. Watch a movie w/ the GF and whip this thing out? One hand reaching for 2nd base and the other wrist deep in the Reflexology Massager? I dont think so. Sure, it might feel good, but letting another human see it is social suicide.

Theme of the story? Never be ashamed to whip out the newest edition of SkyMall and start digging. Hell, maybe start a conversation with the girl who just sat next to you, and let the ridiculous items in that magazine serve as the foundation. When starting a conversation with funny items in a SkyMall magazine….the possibilities and discussion directions are endless. So take advantage of that little booklet that’s provided in every seat back.

Music Video Breakdown: How to be The Man – Riff Raff ft Slim Thug & Paul Wall

So the time has finally come. Riff Raff, that ridiculous white guy with the crazy corn rows/ zigzag chinstrap we’ve all been seeing more and more of during this past year, is finally about to release his debut album – Neon Icon. Keep in mind it’s original release date was the early fall of ’13. It’s now summer of ’14 and we’re ALL STILL DROOLING FOR IT. That’s because we’re all idiots, and Riff Raff along with his mentor/friend/puppet master, Diplo, know it. They’ve strung us along like a group of quivering baseheads…dropping crack rocks in the form of singles every couple of miles/months. We pick them up, (find the song) load them in our filthy little crack pipes (stream them via a number of different music sources e.g. spotify, grooveshark, torrents, pandora), smoke the shit out of them, (listen) and then talk about crazy new business ideas (gossip about how riff raff ‘is actually kinda sick’). Soon enough it’s been a little while since we’ve gotten that rush, and we’re peeling off our own skin, biting through our cheeks, and screaming like a pack of famished banshees.

ENOUGH OF THOSE STUPID METAPHORS YOU IMBECILE

But honestly….How does he do it? Look at this fucking guy.

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Being Hungover

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I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but somehow hangovers have slipped out of the shadows and begun choking the life out of my Saturdays, Sundays, and occasionally Mondays. Hangovers have slowly evolved from funny, spill your orange juice and laugh your ass off mornings to self assessing, emotionally and spiritually questioning journeys through darkness. Hangovers. They’re here. Like an army of orcs standing at the city’s gate. Waiting to just ruin your fucking day. Waiting to chop down your door, pull you from out underneath your covers and put your head on a stake outside the city.

So hangovers are shitty now. That has become factual in my life. They are now much shittier than they used to be. At first they just didnt exist; In my early drinking days. I’d wake up at 9am after being completely blacked out at a family dinner – made a huge fool of myself to the point where dad says ‘i’m done with this bullshit’ and leaves the table after i make some heinously inappropriate comment to one of our guests – and be ready to go play 18 holes.

Then in college they became a bit worse. But with the right strategies, they could be almost completely avoidable. Drink water until it spills out of your mouth. Drink it until one more swallow and it’s all coming back up. Go to sleep feeling like a water balloon, and wake up feeling like Davy Crockett. It was that easy.

But now, unfortunately, I haven’t found out any fail-safe techniques to the issue. I guess the logical answer would be to just, stop drinking so damn much. If you don’t drink until you cant speak, then you wont feel like a cold bag of shit the next morning. Simple. But that is terribly unrealistic, and would be borderline social suicide in my present situation. The common denominator amongst all my friends, and i’ve only come to realize this very recently, is that we all enjoy getting unacceptably inebriated at the drop of a brown suede fedora.

So with that in mind, the consequence inevitably drops its sledgehammer on my soft cranium the following morning and I have to find out a way to deal with it. The most obvious answer is of course excessive masturbation. For some reason it just feels right to crank out a round or two in the AM of an earth shattering hangover. But here’s the problem, it may feel more satisfying because the feeling of joy seems so far away to the depressed mind of a hangover, yet sensational and vision blurring pleasure are just a few minutes away with the help of a roommates ipad…but about 15 seconds after finishing, you’d just as soon jump headfirst into a swimming pool of gasoline holding a road flare in your teeth. My advice? Do it, obviously. But dont count on it turning things around.

(that suggestion comes with the assumption that you don’t have a girlfriend, because a lengthy session of passionate love-making followed by a lazy afternoon of romantic comedies, cut into sections by steamy sex in funny places around the apartment is the magical cure to pretty much any bad situation. But this isn’t addressed to the lucky folks with that privilege. I’m talking about about cold, solitary suffering with nothing but your own thoughts to back you away from the ledge.)

Another option is exercise, a word that i can never manage to spell correctly the first time. A lot of people like to go to yoga after a night of hard drinking and, ‘sweat out all the toxins’. As if they’re going to just crawl into the yoga studio on their hands and knees begging to find a loaded handgun somewhere in the building, and leave covered in sweat and chatting with the cute girl in hot pink spankies who taught you how to properly arch your back in downward dog. I dont think so. Here’s what happens. You go to yoga, you think its going to suck, and it sucks even worse than you could imagine. You forget your water because you’re not thinking straight, then you notice you’re the only person in the 40 student, sold out yoga class that didnt bring some form of hydration, so you spend the first half of the class wondering if you should even be in the fucking studio if it’s even safe to be doing this. Then the crazy instructor who you think has it out for you starts turning on all the heaters that you didnt even notice were there and it starts getting really really really hot. You start sweating profusely and know that your neighbors are probably getting drunk off your fumes, and that a shot glass full of your sweat could more than likely kill a small village of clueless aborigines if you went about it tactfully. You then realize that your mind is racing and that you are beyond dehydrated and need to get a drink of water from the water fountain in hallway. You exit the studio and everyone stares at you. You take a long drink of water and realize there is no point in going back in, so you go home and take a shower. You feel weird and slightly embarrassed so you take a 2 hour shame nap, which turns into a 5 hour slumber and your day is over. Namaste.

Another popular option is binge eating. Ya know, ‘get some fuel in ya’. Because that’s what everyone needs when they don’t know which way is up. A 5,000 calorie meal covered in syrup and a tab for 75 bucks. There’s honestly nothing worse that waking up somewhere you don’t want to be, and being surrounded by people you don’t really know who all want to have a post-blackout group hangout session while ordering disgusting food and laughing about the night before. Sounds like fun, but it’s not fun. People are trying to be hungover funny, and I’m ready to burn the diner to the floor and unload a hot, frothy load of bright yellow dehydrated piss on the ashes. Now I’m not saying it’s impossible to laugh with your buddies when you’re all impossibly hungover and looking for answers. That’s great. But it’s me and two, maybe three close friends telling close/interpersonal jokes and making fun of everyone else we hung out with the night before. It’s not me at the end of an 8 top trying to remember everyone’s names and whether or not I’ll scare the group if I order a shot of whiskey while Henrique and Felicity laugh at how they bought an 8 dollar bottle of champagne from duane reade at 2am and it was just ‘so ridiculous’. Then the bill comes and everyone just toss their cards in the bowl and ‘just split it up evenly, thanks.’ 75 bucks later you’re in bed trying to forget it all happened. No thanks. Just jerk off and go back to sleep.

The final, and best method in my delusional brain, is the idea that in order to regain any sort of feelings of normalcy…you must simply continue drinking. That means the green light is glowing as soon as the jeans are buttoned and the sweatshirt comes down over the disheveled rats nest. It means scaring people who are unfamiliar with this method. It means realizing you’ve filled in the ‘option D’ bubble on the first question of the ‘are you an alcoholic’ test. ‘Do you ever drink alcohol the morning after a night of heavy alcohol use?’ I used to be so confused by that question.

Who does that?

That’s scary stuff. 

That’s what old divorced men do. 

Now it’s what I do. And guess what? It fucking works. But sadly, it is only a temporary remedy; it only postpones the inevitable. Hangovers have now become a looming glacier that starts crawling toward me as soon as that first IPA touches my lips at 7pm on Friday, and crushes me on Monday morning. It’s as if i’m running up the wrong side of an escalator, and there’s a buzz-saw at the bottom. It grabs the heels of my shoes, sucks me inside, and then pours me into a 5 gallon bucket that people can use to attract sharks on some lame port of call expedition from Carnival Cruises.

So enjoy those early days. Wake up and give your mother a big ol hug and say, ‘sorry about that mom. I guess I just need to know my limits. It won’t happen again. I’m going down to go play tennis with Andrew in about 30 minutes. It’s so nice out!’

But if those days are gone, just accept the evolution of the consequence…and snap open a cold one in the AM before you even think twice. You won’t regret it. Yes you will. But not until Monday morning. And that, my friend, is a loooooong ways away.

Here’s to the weekend.

The Real Slim Shady

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So there’s a special on Fuse TV right now about Eminem. It’s going through his top 20 music videos, and i’m really enjoying it. It’s reminding me of how awesome Eminem was, and the impact, good or bad, that he had on the children of my generation.

First off lets talk briefly about this channel, Fuse. The two women hosting this show look like they should be working in a nail salon somewhere in NJ. On their iPhones at all times, stealing cash from the till, ignoring all paperwork and slowly driving the business into the ground. I also just learned that Fuse has a show that features two members of the Insane Clown Posse watching music videos and just talking shit about them. That’s the entire show.

Without Me is an incredible music video

Introducing the Great Marshall Mathers. This is unbelievably good stuff. I’m not going to launch myself into a dissertation about the devolution of Slim Shady, because that would be a tired piece of writing thats already been perfected. I’m not good enough to gather all the necessary information and prove my point that Eminem spearheaded an entire generation of music and music lovers that finally felt that it was okay to both create, and listen to the music they cared about. Eminem spit in faces that had previously been untouchable. Hawking venom infused bombs at people from Moby to George Bush to his own mother. You get it. He sucks now. I can’t even listen to his new stuff. 

A couple references to ‘The Up in Smoke’ tour. Which featured a ridiculous line up of rappers that were unanimously hated by the mothers and fathers of 7th grade kids. Which is from whom i had to ask permission when the tour rumbled through my home town in 2001. Needless to say that was a short conversation.

up in smoke

A Confederacy of Douche: Titanic

Douche Bag: (noun) a word to describe a person, usually male, who has surpassed the level of other powerful adjectives such as dickhead or asshole, and has reached dirtbag nirvana. Has, on countless occasions (if not at all times), exemplified the traits of a brainless, self-focused organism, incapable of empathy or any thoughts associated with other human beings. SYNONYMS: snob, bastard, fucker, prick, assclown.

Most movies have the ‘douche’ character. Wedding Crashers, Caddy Shack, The Breakfast Club. All contain great examples of the archetypal douche bag. But no movie in the history of movies has a greater cast of douches than james cameron’s masterpiece, TITANIC.

Let’s start with the King Pin.

You.....you imbecile

You…..you imbecile

Cal Hockley. Possibly the biggest douche in cinematic history. I mean, just look at him.  He wears a tuxedo for basically the entire movie. He’s also played by Billy Zane, an incredibly douchy looking person. Hockley is the owner of several factories or something vague and its implied he doesnt actually do anything but makes a shitload of money because the world just fucking sucks. Perfect job for this guy. He starts the movie by hopping out of his horse drawn carriage describing the Titanic to his crew saying,

it has squash courts, a Parisian cafe…even Turkish baths.

Cal is happy that the Titanic has squash courts. You know Cal crushes punks on the squash courts back home like nobody’s FUCKING business. Probably calls down to his butler in the third set like ‘draw my Turkish bath BISH’. But Cal doesn’t really start spitting dick until the arrival of the film’s hero, Jack Dawson, played by everyone’s real-life hero, Leonardo DiCaprio. Cal fucking hates Jack. He says some unbelievably disrespectful things to the 3rd class tenant who ends up piping his fiancee in a burgundy model T just minutes before the iceberg tears a mortal wound in the side of the unsinkable ship. And how about the way he treats his unfaithful fiancé? Why would she ever want to fuck a 20 year-old kid who looks like LEonardo DiCaprio when she chill with Cal?!

Now you’d hope that when the going gets tough, even the douchiest of them all can muster some mutant form of compassion. Nope, not Cal. Instead of helping out the poor children of the 3rd class, Cal ends up SNEAKING ONTO A LIFEBOAT that is RESERVED FOR WOMEN AND CHILDREN and escaping the sinking ship. Strong play, Cal. Strong play indeed.

#2. Rose’s Mother

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No one knows her name. I don’t even think her character is given a name. It’s just titled ‘the stuck-up-red-haired-cunt-muscle’. I imagine to get into character, there were a team of interns that were tasked with hammering a bowling-pin up her ass and whispering unforgivable promises in her ear before each scene. Throughout the entire movie, she’s got this look on her face. Like her head is about to explode or something. Her character is horribly shallow. She wants Rose to marry Cal so she can keep her place in the upper class instead of knitting wool socks in some basement sweatshop. The desire isn’t so off-point, but the way she presents it to Rose comes off as extremely douche.

#3 This Guy

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This guy fucking sucks. His name is Spicer Lovejoy and he is the absolute worst character in the movie. He’s actually shittier than Cal because his world is ruled by the idea that Cal is great. His job is to do whatever Cal says. And he just loves loves loves his job. He’s the idiot who spends the majority of the movie running through the hallways with an ornately engraved silver pistol looking for Jack. He’s trying to find Cal’s fiancé cheating on Cal. There really isnt much to say about this guy. But he belongs on the list because he fucking sucks. He’s also way older than anyone else. Now that i’m thinking about it, what exactly is he doing? What is his story? It might be kinda interesting.

Probably not though. It’s probably as pathetic as we all imagine.

poem

beehive

supine in this beehive life situation
safe for now in 2 rooms and a hallway
an octagon on the underside of the honeycomb

outside we’re strangers. bug eyed sunshades
and high walls protect personal peeves
from nothing but hidden happy majorities

lights inside turn buildings into compound mosaic
eyes click left and right and rise into a starless sky
where we look down upon sidewalk pointed heads

white metal a/c units drip water 6 stories
splashing in black puddles outside a pub
where maybe a beautiful girl is watching the game

Dinosaur Dialogue

So yesterday, after participating in one of the most worthless events in recent memory, I was crammed into a car full of coworkers and drove home crammed next to the rear window of a toyota corolla. 4 people in the back seat just doesn’t work anymore. It’s extremely uncomfortable and pisses everyone off. But putting someone in the trunk is completely out of bounds socially, which doesn’t really make a ton of sense, but suggesting that would have been.

In certain situations, when you have several different people from several different genres, it’s easier to talk about specific things than it is to just sit around and make vague statements about what you all just went through. An example of this is the classic, ‘what was your favorite (insert stupid childhood thing) growing up’ and then everyone chimes in and defends their own stupid childhood thing and tries to tell you how stupid your stupid childhood thing was.

And thus we began talking of Dinosaurs.

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Dinosaurs were great. Who knows if they ever actually existed, but they were fucking awesome to learn about. Who didn’t love those dinosaur coloring books. They probably existed.. but does anyone really know wtf was going on 200 million years ago? 200 million years.

200. million. years.

No. No one knows. But yeah their bones have been studied extensively by weirdos for quite some time now. And how about that for a profession.

“Howard, what line of work are you in? How are you continuing to make payments on this ocean-front mansion in Santa Cruz?”

“Thanks for asking, Jared. I study dinosaur bones.”

If the word ‘dinosaur’ is included in your job description, then you should be extremely proud to be an American. You think that position exists in Burma? I don’t fucking think so!

So the question arises in the packed little Toyota. It’s asked by the driver, who obviously is trying to make conversation, seeing as it’s her car and she’s responsible for the social comfort of all her passengers. Really a cop-out if you ask me. The dude sitting next to me answers immediately.

“Velociraptor.”

Which I assume was his answer only because he loves the movie Stepbrothers, but very well may be his favorite.. seeing as it’s the most popular answer on the fucking planet. The car carries on for several minutes about how awesome Raptors are and I make a DeMar DeRozan joke and no one laughs. I don’t have a chance to honestly respond before the girl in shotgun whines out,

“My favorite was always the Triceritops.”

I let out an audible moan. She went with Triceritops. I bet her favorite color is blue and her lucky number is 7. But here’s the thing about Triceritops that doesn’t really get acknowledged very often…they’re kind of fucking awesome, and extremely overlooked as a top contender. Now, i’m not saying the bird-brain sitting in shotgun knows anything about the ‘tops other than it was her favorite character in ‘Land Before Time’, but regardless she made a decent selection. The triceratops isnt trying to be anything it isn’t. It eats grass, shits big, and will drive you into the dirt if you look at it the wrong way. The obvious downside is it’s super feminine and equates to an oversized Rhinoceros. But you don’t want one of those things getting pissed at you. No. you. do. not.

The group goes back and forth for a bit before home-boy next to me hits the group with this,

“Dude. DUDE. Easy. You guys probably don’t know about this one, but i’m dropping that dino-knowledge for free. Stegosaurus. All day.”

The classic, dude-who-thinks-he-knows-a-ton-about-a-somewhat-strange-subject but in reality makes himself look like a clown when he answers with one of the most popular answers ever. Every 3rd kid in any given 5th grade classroom picks the Stegosaurus. And he gets no points for his answer either. Stegosaurus is loserville. Has a stegosaurus ever actually killed anything with that spike tail? It’s like every picture you see it looks like the Stegosaurus is a half-second away from burying that thing into someones face. But i’m not sure that ever happened. I think they bark quite a bit. No bite tho. C+ for the selection and F for the delivery. I let my opinion be known and am shot down aggressively for telling the group that the stegosaurus is a massive poser, and looks like free dinner to any semi-masculine animal of that time period.

Like a rapid pack of the Dilophosaurus, which was my answer.

Dilophosaurus-Gabriel-LioThat’s right. .

You want to play the ‘whats your favorite dinosaur game’, then strap it up because i’m going 110%. I didn’t skip all those recesses with my nose buried in dinosaur picture books for nothing. I didn’t miss out on playing co-ed games of red-rover to get shown up by a car full of naive shitbrains who are just now starting to realize that dinosaur knowledge has value and holds weight in conversations like these; a car full of kids who just picked the T-Rex picture, named him Rex, and asked for a fucking cookie. It was for this exact situation. You may know the Dilophosaurus as the spitting creature that dominates Newman in Jurassic Park..who for some reason goes full retard when he tries to escape with the shaving cream canister. An easy target, i’ll give you that, but the Dilophosaurus is supreme.

Of course no one had anything to say about my answer, because up until the comment was made, no one had any fucking idea what a Dilophosaurus was. The point is, where are my fellow Dino scholars? They’re out there. Living in ocean-front mansions in Santa Cruz and slamming milfs before the steaks are done and after the kids are snoring. I picked the wrong profession.