The Age of Adulthood

Apparently 15 is the official age of becoming a full grown up adult.  I say this because the top story on AOL news was extolling that Bindi Irwin (daughter of hero/idiot Steve Irwin) had flourished into grownuphood (that’s a word I swear.  I looked it up in a book of words.  Yes, yes that’s the ticket said in the voice of Jon Lovitz.  Acting!) at the age of 15.  A little premature much I caught myself saying before I took a minute to ponder this incredibly detailed article.  I looked out the window and gazed at the apartment complex across from me where a couple was having a mini argument.  They soon went inside and I was stripped of my entertainment, so I decided to go back to the 15 year old thing.  Is attaining 15 years of life the age in which one becomes an adult in the civilized world?  I thought about this query for a few more minutes until I figured that thinking this much about 15 year old women would probably trigger some kind of government warning and then I, like Tobias and Maeby Funke before me, would have to live in Sudden Valley.  I did not want to incur that fate.  So I made a hasty decision and figured that, yes, 15 is a ripe old age for full maturity and adulthood.

Just remember where you were when you reached the age of 15, or should I say maturity.  I remember it like it was 7 years ago.  I knew I had reached adulthood because I was about to do a very adult thing: start my sophomore year in high school.  Yes, nothing says grown up like attending your second year of high school as a student rather than as an undercover cop or an undercover reporter.  At 15, I had my full grown up features such as a height of 5’5 and a voice that cracked every 4 minutes.  Nothing says being a grown up or “adult”, as we called it back in the day, like the 10 weird strands of hair over my upper lip (otherwise known as a pedo-stashe).  Man, I recall that glorious feeling at 15 when I realized I was all grown-up.  It came after my 9:30 bedtime while I was laying on my Ultimate Spiderman sheets staring up at my Lego Star Wars Cloud City Action Set (complete with the ability to turn Han Solo into Carbonite).  This is how it is to be grown up I thought to myself.  One does not achieve grownup-ness through a silly bar mitzvah service, or receiving a draft notice at 18, or achieving the first of many tax audits at age 25.  You become a fully matured adult when you hit 15, the exact center of male puberty.  AOL news was right again (why would AOL news lie?  What would they have to gain through a click bait headline article?).  The arbitrary age of 15 is when you hit adulthood because.  Just because.  Don’t ask any more questions, and if I may pull a Helen Sinclair, don’t speak.  Just accept it and accept it with pride.  Plus, who are you doubt AOL news?  They were number one in online news in 1998; it said so on the free packs they used to give out.  And that claim is good enough for me to keep up with their intrepid reporting and profound insights on whether former quasi child stars are officially “grown up”.  Good day sir, I said good day.

Rick and Morty: Plug of the week

Rick and Morty is quite the mind fuck of a show.  6 episodes in and I am already hooked beyond belief.  It is the best new show of the year in my calm, objective opinion.  At first the show seems like an extended riff on the relationship between Doc Brown and Marty McFly, but oh it is so much deeper and better than that.  6 episodes deep Rick and Morty have been in simulations of simulations, parallel realities, dreams of dreams, and have dealt with attempted king jellybean rape (a sentence I never thought I’d write but you know, Obama’s America).  Morty is our portal of entry as viewers as his Grandpa Rick guides us through the chaos that is the galaxy or universe or multiverse.  This show plays as the anti-Adventure Time by displaying the dark and chaotic side of seemingly whimsical characters.  I am also overjoyed to see Rick use “Cronenberg” as a verb.  Well done gentlemen.   Another perk to the show is the end credits scenes.  This is the type of show that ratchets up the stakes and emotion in the last 2 minutes through expert use of song as Morty realizes the consequences of what has occurred.  Nothing says mind fuck like staring at the screen in the same dumbfounded and numb look as the characters presented on the other side of the box.

Rick and Morty man is all you can say after these episodes before turning it to the Daily Show or moving on to whatever your life calls for at 11 PM on a Monday night (or whenever you watch it thanks to DVR and the internet or should I say Obama’s America.  Sorry, the State of the Union is near and I’m excited to watch…the Knicks’ game over it).  I highly recommend Rick and Morty if you are a fan of Dan Harmon, Justin Roiland, sci-fi, mind fucks, or any Adult Swim program.  So that ends my endorsement/shill of the night.  Enjoy the State of the Union or whatever.  

The Grammys? More like another lame awards show. Am I right, people?

I think the Grammys just plain suck.  So to make it suck less or even not at all (I know I'm a dreamer) this is what I would like to see at the Grammys tonight:

1)      A decent tribute to Lou Reed.  The man changed music and was even given a salute from The X Factor, a show designed to making sure people like him never succeed in the music business.  Let’s see if the Grammys will do something shocking and give this man a shout out or stick to precedent and ignore everything he’s ever done.

2)      They should have a we got it wrong part of the show and take back awards they gave to the wrong act.  I’ll give them a starting place, A Taste of Honey over Elvis Costello for Best New Artist.  Have a small ceremony were Elvis Costello gets the award and gets to mock the academy or whatever this group is called.  I’ll also be happy to help with other ones (cough Jethro Tull cough).

3)      If Madonna doesn’t do or say something that has at least half the population spewing uncontrollable rage or disappointment, she will have made at least one part time Grammy watcher kind of sad.  Or most likely not, this said person don’t really care about the Grammys (this will be the last mention of this mysterious and may I add quite handsome person.  Perhaps he will make an appearance in another article.  Just you wait and see.).

4)      They change the award to something more current than a gramophone to like an LP or a CD.  Get with the times already, jeez!

5)      The cameramen show some restraint and only pans to Jay Z and Beyonce every 35 seconds during the broadcast if only to put a dent in the inevitable X times Beyonce was Even More Perfect during the Grammys than You will Ever Be so Shoot Yourself in the Fucking Face Buzzfeed list.

6)      Just focus on the performances.  I want to see musicians perform, not see awards whose only purpose now is to motivate the next great Kanye album on his inevitable snubbing.  Plus, Pitchfork already honored the greatest music of the year, so yeah.  Get to the music.

Here are some of my suggestions.  How would you make the Grammys better?  Our suggestions are abound to be better than those living in that bubble.  

The Dentist

Why do I think that brushing my teeth intensely a few days before a visit to the dentist will make any difference?  It’s not like cramming for a test in which all necessary knowledge can be accrued within a matter of hours.  No matter how hard and fine I brush my 32 teeth (number may vary depending on current residence), I can never trick the dentist into thinking I did a good job maintaining the sanctity of my incisors for 6 whole months.  They probably know I tried to cover it up too.  They know the ones who have been keeping constant care of their molars and bicuspids and the dirty ones who have done the rush job or threw on some whitening strips a few days before.  I wonder if they prefer those who don’t care to those who try to do a quick cover.  It must be rather insulting to a trained dentist to have patients like me come in who think they can fool a trained medicine man with a shoddy cover up job.  How they must be sick of all the lies, lies, lies.  Perhaps on my next visit I won’t engage the rush job and I’ll admit to being a faulty caregiver of my teeth.  Would they appreciate the honesty of a man coming in and saying "here are my yellowish teeth, tell it to me like it is"?  Or would they pounce like lions to a gazelle and yell and admonish me for falling into the habits of 90% of their patients.  Has there ever been an immaculate dentist visit not concerning two dentists or a dental hygienist?  I'm talking about a visit where the dentist checks around the mouth of a normal and comes away so impressed that he is able to leave this earthly plane and ascend for a few minutes to dental nirvana.  Yes dental nirvana, a place so fantastical that just a mere mention will cause the saltiest of grizzled dentists to blush.

Mostly though, a dentist deals with a patient just going through the motions.  But how they long to reach the mountain top of dental nirvana.  There is always an obstacle to nirvana whether it be inflamed gums, crooked teeth, or a case of gingivitis.  A dentist’s life is not the life for me.  I have no problem with visiting the dentist, but I was turned off to the process as a whole when I was a young lad walking down to the East Village.  For many the East Village is a place of fun.  My first experiences in the East Village was going to a dentist.  That's the real New York City for all you kids moving in today.  But back to the story.   The office was run like a daycare, the wait was forever, and the payoff was an unrewarding 5 minutes with an indifferent dentist who would be replaced every visit.  The only constant was my S&M loving dental hygienist.  Like a miniature Steve Martin in Little Shop of Horrors, she loved to put her patients in a world of hurt.  She also wore a lot of leather if only to make her connection to the S&M arts even more transparent.  With that as my constant, the dentist was a never a go to destination. 

But as I approach another dentist visit on Tuesday, I realize that it’s going to be the same as it ever was.  Brush harder, for the love of God floss, and if I’m lucky I won’t gag a million times when they shove the mini-camera down my throat (the x-rays usually constitute an hour with me).  So bring it on mister dentist man with your tools and vanilla toothpaste and I will try to fool you again with my shoddy clean up job.  The endless dance continues. 

A Spectrum of Personality

I am curious about where I fall on the scale of Jason Thompson.  I don't mean where I rank among all men and women named Jason Thompson, but where I rank on the spectrum of my very being.  I mean to ask what is the best and worst possible version of my 22 year old self and where does my present self fall into place?  I have no answer for the question of where I land on the scale at the moment, but I saw a representation of what could happen if I fall further down the spectrum.   This representation wouldn't be my worst self in a vacuum (I suppose all of our worst selves are murderers and psychopaths), but a darker timeline if I give in to my seedier qualities.  I saw a scruffy loser scrapping to get by and I saw him struggle as he seemed to fail in everything he set out to accomplish.  Nothing went his way and his arrogance was mostly to blame.  I am referring to the character of Llewyn Davis from the Coen Brother's wonderful new film, Inside Llewyn Davis.  In this man I found a variant of my worst self and I was captivated.

It's a strange phenomenon that some of us are compelled by losers and anti-heroes rather than the virtuous that walk among us.  We see a character like Llewyn Davis who alienates everyone he meets and we are still compelled to root for his success.  If there is nothing romantic about trying and failing over and over again until bitterness and the hard truths that emerge after repeated failings, we as a public haven't learned it yet.  Perhaps we are always waiting for that triumphant moment where Job finally wins and gets everything back times 10.  Any type of victory will satisfy our demands, whether it be a small moral one or a physical victory that was a long time coming.  A bloody Llewyn Davis has no victories to speak of as he stumbles out of the alleyway of the Gaslight Cafe.  He can only listen to the faint sounds of the song "Farewell" by Bob Dylan as he ponders the future of his fate.  He is a man at the crossroads and is starting to accept that he may not get out of this one intact.  That clicked with me.  I saw myself down the road in his battered shoes.  I can see myself not singing, but attempting to do something I enjoy and something I believe I'm good at only to end up watching someone better or worse beat me.  I can see a road of bitterness and sarcasm brought on due to unfulfilled triumphs that were buoyed by minor success.  This is definitely not something to strive for, but I can see it well.  I can see myself in that alleyway or in that audition watching things slip away.  It is a low ranking on the Jason Thompson spectrum, but it still exists.  It exists with the Jason Thompson that is widely successful or the Jason Thompson who sells out by moving to the suburbs after getting that corner office he craved for the last few years.  An infinite spectrum of outcomes, personalities, and changes await me as the years pass, but I am glad to know that I have identified a variant of my worst self.  Now if I could only learned to play the guitar, then I'd be set.  

Art and the Outside Storm

Some works of art cannot be separated by the outside events that surround the lives of their creators.  Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and Woody Allen’s Husbands and Wives are two such documents that will always be tangled up with the private lives of their creators.  Below are two mini-essays on each:

Bob Dylan

Blood on the Tracks – Dylan has always denied the autobiographical nature of what is known as the seminal break up album, but his own son has mentioned the connection between the songs and what his parents were going through at the time.  Regardless of the context in which the songs were birthed from, they represent Dylan’s best album since John Wesley Harding.  “Tangled Up in Blue” presents a love affair as a painting with every event happening simultaneously.  A closing line like “we always did feel the same we just saw it from a different point of view” gets me every single time.  I’ve seen “Simple Twist of Fate” played live a few times and never with the same lyrics and each time was a revelation and a pure highlight.  “You’re a Big Girl Now” has those wails and dramatic emotional shifts between anger, bitterness, regret, and extreme sadness.  How one 4 minute song contains such shifts continues to amaze me.  “Idiot Wind” is a song that has no definitive version.  If one is in a dazed, depressed mood, listen to the version on the bootleg series.  If you are inclined for cathartic anger with a no holds bar pace, put on Blood on the Tracks.  If utter disgust and profound bitterness is what you crave, the Hard Rain version will more than satisfy.  For me, at the moment, it is the best song on the album.  We move on to “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When you Go”, the closest thing to a light song on the album.  At 3 minutes long, trips to Honolulu and San Francisco (not to mention Ashtabula) and references to Verlaine and Rimbaud populate the wistful track.  “Meet Me in the Morning” is an amazing blues song and much gentler than the scorched earth musical companion piece of “Call Letter Blues”.  Again the closing line of “Look at that sun, sinkin' like a ship, Ain't that just like my heart, babe, When you kissed my lips?” get me every time (I may have also used that one on a few women and will most likely continue to use it.  It’s such a good line…).  If “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts” is about Dylan’s marriage then I say kudos for using such an impenetrable code.  It is a western love/crime story looking for a movie screen while also gazing at the Jack of Hearts.  “If You See Her, Say Hello” is another song of profound sadness or agonizing anger depending on which version you happen to listen to.  Both are fascinating and great.  “Shelter from the Storm” continues with streams of intense imagery and lines like “beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine” that transport the song into another dimension.  The final song is “Buckets of Rain”, which to me is akin to gently shutting the door after a whirlwind of a trip and setting off to whatever adventure or trial lies next.  This is one of my favorite albums which probably accounts for the unabashed gushing tone presented above. 

Woody Allen

Husbands and Wives – Pushed into theaters on the wake of the scandal with Mia Farrow, Husbands and Wives is an unusual film for Woody Allen.  This takes the documentary style of earlier films like Take the Money and Run and Zelig and turns it on two failing marriages.  The movie runs in many parallels to what was happening in their lives.  Woody Allen’s character of Gabe gradually becomes infatuated by a younger woman, while his marriage to Judy (Mia Farrow) deteriorates in a slow roasting fashion after receiving the shocking news that their close friends had split after many years.  Gabe and Judy don’t have blowout fights like Jack (Sydney Pollack) and Sally (Judy Davis) nor do they cheat on each other.  The marriage just unravels.  It starts with an argument about having children which divulges into a larger fight about trust when Gabe asks if Judy would ever lie about putting in her diaphragm.  That inciting argument spirals into other ones involving respect and then a final acknowledgement that their relationship is over.  In the end, Judy wins the breakup as she gets out of a relationship she wanted to escape and winds up happy in the arms of the lover she pursued (Liam Neeson).  Gabe ends up alone to lick his wounds and recover.  It is interesting that in most Woody Allen films with Mia Farrow, the two never really end up together.  This film is the rawest depiction of lost love between Woody Allen and Mia Farrow characters and the timing of this portrayal could not have been planned better (for the studio).  Watching Woody Allen’s character come to terms with his feelings for a much younger woman must have been uncomfortable for many moviegoers (I wish I had seen this movie in the theater.  That would have been fascinating).  Apparently, Mia Farrow and Woody Allen finished filming the movie after she found out about the affair with Soon Yi.  The scene they filmed was the one towards the end of the movie where Judy tells Gabe they need to break up.  The scene is just them together on a couch, with Gabe telling Judy his favorite memories of them together, while he gently touches her.  I cannot imagine how it must have felt to be on that set or to be Mia Farrow being touched by a man who destroyed her life.  It must have been quite the working environment.  Husbands and Wives is unlike any film Woody Allen had made at that time or has made since.  It is a beautiful film that is impossible to separate from the outside storm that surrounded it.  This is a film not to be missed. 

Works Cited

Husbands and Wives. Dir. Woody Allen. Prod. Woody Allen. Perf. Woody Allen, Mia Farrow, Judy Davis, and Sydney Pollack. TriStar Pictures, 1992.

Jefferson, Whitney. "Woody Allen's Scandalous Affair With Soon-Yi 'Took A Little Edge Off' His 'Natural Blandness'" Jezebel. N.p., 22 Nov. 2011. Web. 16 Jan. 2014.

Sounes, Howard. Down the Highway: The Life of Bob Dylan. New York: Grove, 2001. Print.

Let A Rod Play (and let us enjoy the drama)!

Major League Baseball is really missing a great chance at a long term high quality HBO (it’s not television, it’s HBO) drama series and has unfortunately decided to go the way of a shady, mini-arc of many lesser network dramas.  I am talking about Alex Rodriguez being banning from the sport he loves to play and deceive.  Sure, the way things are playing out now will make for a great miniseries or TV movie filled with various lowlifes, scumbags, and antiheroes, but why stop the drama at a level so small?  We need villains.  We crave good, tangible ones that can be seen and fought.  Making Alex Rodriguez a figure from the legal shadows is interesting, but it pales in comparison to the preverbal freak show that could be unleashed if he were to play this year.  Remember the frenzy number 13 brought about in his end of the year cameo last season.  He became public enemy number one and for a brief time he was excelling at the role.  He moved up the evil rankings from outright villain to anti-hero when that dickhead from the Red Sox pegged him after missing three times.  The drama that unfolded after that costly hit by pitch sent shockwaves through the spine of the big leagues.  Not only did A-Rod lead the Yankees to their best victory of the season, he infused them with life and hope and nearly lead the Evil Empire to the playoffs when they had no right to have been close to sniffing the glory that is October baseball.  Ticket sales went up, T.V. ratings increased all to see the next chapter of the Alex Rodriguez saga.  The public was enthralled because everybody loves a good villain. 

Good villains make the superhero or movie or book or whatever.  I’m talking about the Darth Vaders, the Jokers, the Khans, the Cruella de Vils, the Moriartys, and the Goldfingers.  These characters ratchet up the stakes and can be more compelling than the protagonist of the story.  We love those with serious flaws; just look at all the villain origin stories coming out soon or how the anti-hero became television’s most popular character.  Real villains add the spice of chaos to the proceedings that make it all worthwhile.  We love a villain we can see, not some abstract boogeyman like a smoke monster from a certain lost on an island television program.  It’s easier to fight a person and a concept rather than a concept or an idea (which is why the war on terrorism will never really succeed, but that is an essay for another liberal rambling).  Alex Rodriguez has a chance to be that tangible enemy.  He has been a hated player since he signed that gargantuan deal with the Rangers in 2001.  Plus, he plays for the Yankees, the self-proclaimed Evil Empire of baseball.  This is an organization that is somehow both the most popular and most hated sports team in the land.  Alex Rodriguez is the Darth Vader to the Yankees Evil Empire and Major League Baseball is trying to ruin such a perfect train wreck of a marriage.

Yes, the elephant in the room is that Alex Rodriguez cheated baseball and took steroids and so on and so forth.  We all have heard the evidence and there is no reason to rehash all of it (only the parts that strategically help my argument).  Rodriguez never failed a drug test (he’s that good) and Major League Baseball probably shouldn’t have been hanging around with a bunch of drug dealers to play gotcha on Rodriguez.  Bud Selig talking to 60 minutes instead of the arbitrator is just disgusting.  I say suspend A-Rod for 50 games and let him return to an even bigger circus than the one that occurred last year.  The man has earned it.  If he was able to successfully cheat baseball again and again, then maybe the doping program isn’t as good as MLB says it is.  Good for him, he beat the system I say!

Bud Selig simply should look to basketball.  When Lebron James signed with the Heat, the NBA gained a public enemy number one for the first time in a while.  Criticized and condemned at the time of his decision, Lebron James’ fateful signing with the Miami Pat Riley’s gave the NBA a compelling narrative: beat the Heat.  Teams would come out and play their hardest to beat Lebron and his cavalry of stars and an appearance by the Heat would rev up an opposing fan base like no other.  Watching the Heat lose to the more conventionally put together Mavericks was a moment of great joy for many fans of the NBA.  Lebron and the Heat were/are the perfect villains.  They were not comically weak or woefully incompetent, but a good team.  They were the Globo Gym Purple Cobras and excelled all the way to the finals.  Watching a heavily favored villain lose in the finals is the perfect Hollywood ending for a villain.  The only way to have improved the ending would have been if the cocky Heat blew a fourth quarter lead in game 7 and lost on a last minute shot by Dirk (I smell an Oscar).  Now the Heat are champions twice over and still the NBA’s premier villains even if the hatred has been watered down as of late.  Missing out on this type of drama would be a huge disservice to fans of the game and fans of the media freak shows.

I put it to you Major League Baseball to let my Alex Rodriguez go (said in a Moses voice).  Let the man play the game he loves this year and bring unparalleled drama to a game that could use some.  Bring a tangible villain to our national pastime and embrace the carnival atmosphere of the proceedings.  The fans will cheer every strike out or misplay in the field.  Me and (possibly) my fellow Yankee fans will relish every opportunity Alex Rodriguez shows flashes of his old grand self.  Let him break records of our parent’s heroes and our parent’s parent’s heroes as the pennant race thickens and the Yankees fight for their rightful place as kings of the baseball universe (full disclosure I am a big Yankee fan).  There will be no better gif than the look of horror on Bud Selig’s face if Alex Rodriguez hits a home run to win a playoff game or series.  We sometimes like it when the bad guys win if only because it makes the heroes journey all the more compelling.  In this instance there really aren’t any heroes, just villains and antiheroes.  It’s time for baseball to get with the times and devote one season to that of the antihero/villain (plus think of the ratings!).        

Another fucking essay about that HBO Show Girls

Tomorrow the third season of Girls commences on HBO and as a fan of the show, I could not be more excited to start up on one of my favorite pastimes from the past three years.  It has been a long hiatus from the thrilling voyage of listening to people dissect every little thing Lena Dunham and the Girls staff does or doesn’t do.  Every perceived misstep of the lowly rated HBO show will be up for overwrought think piece articles and I cannot be more excited.  I can’t wait to read the article about the excessive nudity by somebody who has only watched 3 episodes of the show.  I am overjoyed for the day when I will get into arguments with people saying how the show doesn’t reflect their life and how disgusting these characters are and how my generation sucks.  Sign me up for the numerous articles about whether Girls is feminist/anti-feminist and racist/ not-racist.

The added bonus about reading these overwrought essays are reading the comment sections; oh the lovely comments sections!  A comment section like the AV Club is an enjoyable read most of the time, but nothing compares to the horror show that is Yahoo comments or any of the like (just read anything written under an article about science).  Glory be to the Yahoo comments and their reactions to Lena Dunham’s Frankenstein creation!  The unbridled hatred for her creative lens, the joy they get from mocking her appearance, and the uncontrollable ecstasy achieved from yelling about nepotism!  It’s all there in the king’s poorly written English next to the classic post about making $6,000 from home and something about Ron Paul 2012 (or is that just Youtube).

Girls does not even have to be on television to generate controversy as proven by the mad yelling’s of Judd Apatow, decider of Hollywood morality.  On the press tour for the show a discussion about Lena Dunham’s character’s frequent nudity was argued about and subsequently discussed in no less than 17,000 think pieces.  Reading those think pieces made me feel as overjoyed as Elmer Fudd at the beginning of rabbit season/duck season/rabbit season/duck season/shoot me now!  The season of the opinion is upon us and I will gladly read every article and soak up every sentiment about a show that people just can’t seem to enjoy for whatever reason.

I encourage you to watch Girls and write an essay about it or better yet write an essay about Girls without watching it or without watching an episode in whole.  Dissect every little moment in a show about four young women growing up together as if it was destroying/saving all of Western civilization in a 30 minute running time.  Remember to mention something about Lena Dunham representing all millennials and something about her being naked.  If these elements are not included, don’t even bother writing your think piece as you’ve failed think piece writing 101 (write about what everybody else is writing about?  I don’t know what think piece writing 101 is).  And remember to watch Girls or better yet, read a recap of the episode and write a furious comment about the show somewhere.  

Preview

I'm going to write a post tomorrow.  Yes, the suspense is killing you right now I can feel it.  What will it be about?  What profound writings will be glossed on your screen tomorrow as you accidentally click my blog's link on Facebook/twitter or a hack third party website?  I can assure you it will involve words organized into sentences which will subsequently be organized into a few paragraphs.  It will be about a topic I enjoy, maybe one that is even controversial (the nerve and or gall).  Will it be satirical, only I know for sure (most signs point to yes!).  So this is a preview, a carefully written, totally not tossed off preview of what is to come for tomorrow.  The quality of tomorrow's blog post is still up in the air.  Hopefully it comes out good.  If it doesn't that'll be a first for this blog, am I right people!  Nothing here is ever "subpar" (I am wiping away sweat from the keyboard and doting my forehead with a comically over sized tie).  Just another 500-800 word assessment of how I viewed the world through my "skewed" and different lens.  Another meal to put out for our cultural buffet.  Take a piece of my writings, put it on your plate and enjoy at your own pace.  Savor the richness of what I have to say like it was some sort of savory meal.  Marvel at how I try to start every sentence with action words like marvel and take (a sign of good, nah excellent writing).  So I put it to you, enjoy your Friday night, as I will attempt to do so myself, and ready yourself for my Saturday blogpost on a topic that has been talked about ad nauseam for the past three years.

Farewell, until tomorrow at around 2 - 5 when I most likely will post the beast.

Winter Fun

Some Winter fun:

Throw boiling water in the freezing cold and make sure to film it.  Don’t worry you’ll be the exception to the hilarious videos online.  Why would I lie?

See the movie Frozen only as a fuck you to the season rather than for its enchanting plot and delightful songs and characters.

Global warming arguments can quickly drive you out of your mind.  Discuss global warming with somebody who can’t talk back like a dog or a monk with a vow of silence.

Get on Jeezbel.com’s good side by building an independent and progressive snowwoman.  Get on Buzzfeed’s good side by combining Beyonce with anything.

Penguin and walrus S&M play has never been more appropriate.  Remember to use that tusk and I mean really use that tusk.

Find a nice, cozy spot and pick out a good book to gentle toss into the fireplace.

With all your layers of warm winter clothing on, rolling down the street is the most practical way to get around town.

Only go ice skating if you are really good or really bad at it.  A public ice skating rink is no place for mediocrity. 

Begin every conversation with a frank and honest discussion about how cold it is outside no matter the situation. 

Anybody can tame and ride a Tauntaun so impress your friends by taming and riding a Wampa.

Wrong So Far on the 2014 Predictions...

This new year has already begun to disappoint me in ways I cannot explain.  That last sentence is a lie as I can explain these reasons and I intend to in the words, sentences, and possibly paragraphs written below.  I say that this year has been disappointing because none of the predictions in my famous and popular posting of 2014 predictions have come true.  We have been living in the future for 5 whole days and I am only 0 for everything.  I don’t know whether to be disgusted at this year or at my own failed Nostradamus powers.  Again, I am quite the liar as I am only disgusted in the year and not in myself (what a foolish thought.  Stop being so foolish).    

As I read through my many musings on events that have yet to transpire, I realize that many of my predictions are set up for specific months like October, or November, or the planned further NSA leaks in March (just joking, it’ll will be revealed in April.  March is the cover-up month.  Soon everything will fall into place).  That doesn’t mean I could have still gotten a few of the undated ones correct.  Maybe I start off the year with a bang and get a bold prediction correct right off the bat.  But alas, there has been no sighting of candidate Obama and the champions for a race war have not even been discussed.  Not the slightest progress on either of those two predictions. 

Now the intrepid reader may say that one of my predictions has come true in the form of the Knicks amazing their fans.  They did have thrilling beginning to the year as they shocked the Spurs and then lost in predictable, horrifying fashion to the Rockets.  The victory over the Spurs did not shock any Knicks fans because we, like any other tortured fan base, start off the year with aspirations of rising from the dead like Lazarus.  An undeserved overconfidence always surrounds a shitty team’s fan when the clock strikes next year as they somehow think that the beginning of another revolution around the sun will somehow cause their favorite squad to cast off the shackles of suckdom and play like an actual team.  So when the Knicks “shocked” the Spurs everything was happening according to plan.  We the Knick fans were just anticipating and wincing for when reality would punch us in the face or take a stupid shot with 23.9 seconds left in a tie game.  Losing in the last minute after playing spectacularly for 47 minutes isn’t anything new or amazing.  It is expected at this point in the season.  So when the Knicks lost that heartbreaker and soul crusher to Houston, we the Knickerbocker fans were not amazed or shocked.  We simply realized that this year would be more of the same basketball hell.  On to Dallas, we cry, with thoughts of another upset/new low.

  All my carefully thought out and reasoned predictions have gone unfulfilled and I realize the only path left for me is to write some damning words on a cardboard poster and stand outside the Starbucks near MSG yelling about end times or whatever.  For every failed Nostradamus, this is an ancient and necessary cleansing ritual and after a few days I will be reborn or have succumbed to the freezing weather.  Either way, if you are by that area and see a crazed Harry Potter/John Lennon looking person yelling at you, at least now you know the reason why (if you don’t know it is because of my failed predictions.  Jesus Christ, learn how to read).  

Snow, Snow, Snow

A beautiful thing about snow in New York City is the small window of time we get to enjoy it before it turns into gray disgusting slush.  Whereas the suburbs and the countryside have a seemingly unlimited amount of time to enjoy this white blanketing, we in the city get a good hour before it turns all sorts of weird and uninviting colors.  Running through a midnight snowstorm in the city is often a hilarious exercise.  There are barely any roaming cars out to impede on the maniac, unhinged struggle that accompanies a midnight snow run.  2 blocks of snow running wipes me out faster than my normal rate of 3 blocks of regular running (it’s that hard).  At a certain point of wild running (usually 10 minutes in) you become one with the frosty season and cease to remember a time when you weren’t part snowstorm.  The sun and outside warmth are a concept from a prehistoric time filled with bikinis and some sort of lotion that protects against the sun.  Protection against the sun what a foolish concept you think as you trip yet again into another pile of snow.  Tripping into the snow is one of the few fun ways to lose your footing.  In any other weather condition, falling face first into the sidewalk invites an unpleasant feeling of impeding pain, but now it could not be more fun and harmless provided you don’t fall on the one ice patch.  In fact, you make it a point to fall a few times just for the hell of it.  And if you can take a few people down with you, why not.  Who doesn’t enjoy being pushed into the snow other than old people, crippled people, and other people who would appear in a Life Alert commercial?

The snow is something else for a few hours and then reality bears its head once again.  We’ve had our snow fun, but let’s move on to summer or at least make some tracks towards spring.  Come on people, I’m freezing over here!