The Woodie Awards and the Kinda Upset Whopper

I hate Sundays.

I fucking hate them because they're a bleak, desolate loss regardless of what you do. If you go to church you're going to be made to feel like a shitball. I was raised Catholic and haven't stepped into a church in at least 10 years so my view may be skewed a bit. One of your other options is to go to work, but I think we all know the score if you end up careening down that road.

Then there are those of us who have the day off. If we're lucky we can use this day to sleep in until an ungahdly hour, watch some candy-ass sporting events or dread the next 5 days of fresh hell that will be brought upon us.

I decided to get the jump on the fresh hell angle by watching (or more specifically, not changing the channel on) The Woodie Awards. It was on the Palladia channel and a Q-Tip performance, the Cool Kids being there and a Gnarls Barkley video I wanted to set fire to this whole fucking place. The kids (late teens/early 20s) there were fucking clueless, dopey and mugging for the camera. Some chode sticks a camera in your face and you either mug in metal or indie mode because you're a fucking superstar. And the bands that played were fucking terrible--Paramore, Lykke Li, Santogold, Motion City Soundtrack--I'm going to fucking puke right now thinking about these fucks. And I haven't even heard of half of them! Fuck...!

Most of it was negligible that could've been written off as bullshit fad music. And I'm certain it still will be, but there was a point during this show where every horrible thing that someone has ever done to anyone else suddenly made perfect sense to me. I was filled with such hatred and disdain for what I saw that I almost destroyed my $1200 TV just to make it go away.

I saw 2 greasy-chic girls introducing Vampire Weekend. This, by the way is a band that I couldn't get through a collective 17 seconds of 2 of their songs on SNL some months back. I don't know if it was their grandiose lack of charisma, songwriting ability, talent and/or stage presence that made me wish pain upon them in the most serious of ways but Vampire Weekend eats shit. I would sooner listen to Kenny G's entire catalog ten times over than one of Vampire Weekend's songs. Fuck Vampire Weekend. So back to the girls.

These two looked like they've been fluffing at porn sets all day after they put on raccoon makeup and tube tops. Then they get up there adding in the fuck adjective because you know, it's fucking awesome. They were just stupid fucking hipster bitches that are going to laugh at themselves in 6 months or are going to get that much-needed reality check after they get gang-banged by an emo band. But I think what got me was the one blabbering, with no enthusiasm whatsoever in her voice about how Vampire Weekend was great and how she'd never heard anything like them before.

To which I say:

Bitch, you really need to start listening to some music. Some GOOD music. Not music by boys who wear Axe body spray and whine about their feelings, wear argyle and have haircuts styled by anime characters. And just because you weigh less than 110 soaking wet doesn't mean you're hot. You actually make Paris Hilton seem somewhat appealing, that's how bad you're grossing me out so bad right now. I look forward to your DUI/possession of meth mugshots on Access Hollywood. Presuming anyone ever knows what your name is--including guys who've fucked you. Oh, and stop sucking dick for coke. Really...

Grrr...!

The other instance of nausea that Sunday came from The Angry Whopper. If you're not familiar, The Angry Whopper is Burger King's newest concoction designed to entice its customers into that first bite, at which all you can do is ask yourself why the fuck you bought that or fell for this charade again. I fell for it when I saw the jalapenos, (maybe) spicy onion ring things and pepperjack cheese.

In reality The Angry Whopper is just The Kinda Upset Whopper. The shitty lettuce and sparse but mostly seedy jalapenos are kind of grumpy. The onion ring thingies are just damp and not particularly ambivalent but the bacon seemed kind of stubborn. And the rest is just a whopper. I haven't been that disappointed since Quantum of Solace.

But James Bond movies and gimmicky fast food creations are not one in the same. Bond movies can be interpreted and misunderstood. They can be enjoyed again and again then later percevied in many different ways over the years then re-appreciated and introduced to future generations.

But that Gimmick Whopper just gives you The Itis, makes you take a nasty shit followed by a two and a half hour nap. Fuck you, Angry Whopper.

You Get What You Pay For Saturday (Don't Talk To Strangers!)

Before I start blathering about what I consider to be important or noteworthy in my life, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the late, great Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr for whom this holiday (and what the hell, blog) are lovingly and affectionately dedicated. Not only did the man make great strides for civil rights and the common good, but he's the likely reason (or at least the holiday named after him) that my place of employment is not a complete and total freakshow today. And for that I thank and love him.

This past Saturday I learned something that I always somehow knew. Or maybe I just forgot it. Maybe learned isn't the right word for what I'm trying to get across. Reinforced might be more accurate. Let's just say the point or points were driven home.

Next to my part-time job at the record store there's an oil change place. It's a chain, not very imaginatively designed and the "waiting area" consists of a shitty TV with shittier reception, 3 chairs that have to make an electric chair seem comfortable and a guy with a lazy, lazy eye behind the counter... sometimes. Fortunately I manage to line things up so I never have to deal with Oil Change Hell.

(You know what I'm talking about. Waiting for at least an hour, The View on a TV with a very poor picture, at least half a dozen genetic defectives watching and one of them always takes themselves way too seriously. And if one of them's got a cell phone--fuuuuuuuuck.)

But part of the reason (and I'm about to reveal my thriftiness here, but I'll openly admit to calling it my cheap bastardness) I got the oil change here, aside from being overdue for one, and the whole escaping from Oil Change Hell was the fact that my job set up some kind of quid pro quo deal where they knock $10 off any oil change and we--actually I don't think any of those guys come into our store, but if they raise a stink I'll knock off 15%. No big deal.

So I got the oil change and the price after was $30 and change. That means it would've been over $40 without that dumbass card! What kind of fucking rapist charges over $40 for an oil change? And when I picked up my car (at my leisure I'd like to add) they tried hard selling me on all of this maintenance shit that I've already had done as various and expensive parts of my car took their respective shits. I would've been okay with an oil change up to like $22-23. It's a fucking oil change! I understand they're so easy that even I could be taught how to do one in an hour and these lazy-eyed freaks have the ass to screw me out of $30? If it had all the bells and whistles, yeah. I can see charging that much if I got all my fluid levels topped off and there was a fresh donut on the dashboard. But this was the low-end, no frills one. On the plus side, he told me there was something loose ("but don't worry--we fixed it and its on there tight!") that I had to make an appointment with a real mechanic to fix. They weren't trying to get more money out of me otherwise they would've tried to make some kind of appointment. So Cliffs Notes Edition: I'm pissed about paying too much for an oil change.

After work I had to pick my daughter up at my in-laws' then swing by my publisher's (from Job #3) house to get some copies of the new issue of the publication for which I write and pick up my long overdue check. But at work the seed was planted for me to go get the new(er) Spider-Man game called Web of Shadows. The trailer online looked sweet and symbiotes were in the process of taking over the world. All the other Spider-Man video games I'd played (granted, they were and still are for PS2) had web-swinging and the fighting were never brought together. I mean they were at one point but it was really lame. But I saw that video online and the game looked awesome.

But I had a $20 Target gift card I got for my birthday and the price of the game online was $30. Not too bad, I had to buy new underwear anyway, but that's another story altogether. The other story about my ATM card getting eaten by the ATM, regurgitated and the most awesome person alive (whose name I never got) who chased me down on a busy road to get it back to me is going to get overlooked here. I'm also going to forget the crappy weather and the fine Buffalo tradition where people who have 4-wheel drive are legally obligated to drive like complete and total assholes.

And I didn't even get to the game that night. When I did crack open Web of Shadows and play it I swear to gahd I thought I was playing a Sega Genesis game from the mid-90s. Oh sure, it's cool because you can switch from the red and blue to the black costume but that's really about it. This game is awful! The game programmers obviously put all their energy into the newer platform versions and probably pulled out some half started shit from years ago just for the PS2 version. I think I'm officially done getting games for the PS2 platform. I should've called it a day with The Force Unleashed.

But there's a reason why I didn't get to the game that I seemingly and intentionally made so hard and challenging to acquire. I've got a(nother) part time gig coming up for Diane* and I had to get some reading material and other job tools from her to get a jump on the job when it starts. So I met her at Denny's after my wife got home from work and went to bed. She gave me the books and a jump/zip drive and I put the books in my car. We proceeded to listen to some jazz, turn ourselves sideways (or get ripped if you prefer) and decided to get some food.

Once inside Denny's we were seated in what was obviously a former smoking section. Being messed up, I did as I usually do whether in this condition. Most of the time it takes the form of an internal monologue but if I'm... twisted enough or if I'm in the company of someone who's on the same wavelength as myself in terms of meanness or just silly, bitchy cattiness that internal monologue becomes external. Never above a whisper mind you, but it does periodically escape.

So Diane and I were being lead to our table. The place was about 2/3 full, mostly late teens and the early 20s crowd that hasn't figured out yet that having bright pink hair and talking loudly for all to hear about you've frequently had trains run on your shoebox of an ass doesn't make you hot or interesting. Having 8 dicks penetrate your battered and chapped orifices doesn't make your face look like less of a war crime. Glazed, yes. Attractive, no.

I'm sure I was ripping on them and made a Step Brothers reference. There was a couple sitting directly across from us and the rarely but existing considerate part of my personality realized that I could in fact be that guy who ruins movies for other people. I asked the couple if they saw the movie, they did and I proceeded with my reference. Or maybe it was Diane's. Being sideways you don't always remember the smaller details. But the couple kind of worked their way into our conversation. Not aggressively, but they mistook a little common courtesy as an invitation to yap, yap, yap away the night. Together.

They were a younger couple. She started wearing pajama pants out in public once they got comfortable together about 5-6 months into the relationship. Or after she gave up her ass cherry to him, I can't figure out which. She was pleasant enough but I'm guessing he doesn't like to speak too much and judging by how little he spoke I'd say they've been together at least 2 years. You can tell that she plans on getting knocked up and turning into her mother by how little she put into her appearance and had no qualms about eating at Denny's at 1AM.

(I know, I know. Diane and I were eating at Denny's at 1AM just like these poor schlubs, but we were f-ed up...)

We left around 3:30AM and both came to the conclusion that we're elitists and wouldn't have it any other way. "Married elitist thirtysomethings blowing off steam..." is how she aptly and brilliantly described our collective situation.

Jesus, I love Saturday nights and drawn out sentences with lost trains of thought that end in the words so yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. And having the presence of mind to laugh at that shit and how enjoyably stereotypical it is.

* See previous blog

Gay vs. Gay

When I first started blathering upon the very server space where this blog resides (i.e. my first blog entitled "First and Foremost") I threw the word gay around and I promised to come back to my defense of this word.

I'd like to start by stating that over the years I've had many gay friends and they've all been great people with whom I've regretfully lost touch with in most cases. People grow apart, they move, pick up drug habits, whatever. Shit just happens and there's often very little control involved. Fine, let's move on.

I personally like gay people. Back when I was single I was more likely to get checked out (or even approached...!) by a gay man than I was by a straight woman. And by the way, I'm a straight man who's been (mostly) happily married for nearly 2 years if this puts things into perspective for you. Regardless of whether a sasquatch of a woman checks me out or an absolutely fabulous gay man I'm always flattered. Acting on it isn't likely to happen but just knowing that just about anyone thinks of me that way is kind of nice even if it's not going to translate well to reality. But when what seems to be exclusively gay men give you the looks it gets a tad discouraging. Or it used to. But a friend pointed out that's the best compliment you can get because gay men have great taste.

Think about it. Gays bring up real estate values because one of the first things they tend to do is remodel the place. They're also snappy dressers. I'd let a gay man pick out my wardrobe if price was no object in a heartbeat. And they're generally into classic movies so they're okay in my book. Whatever they do behind closed doors is their business and if they want to adopt kids or get married I see no rational reason in the world why they shouldn't be allowed to do so.

So you're up (or down) with The Gays. What's the problem?

The problem is I love the word gay as an adjective at least. And not in the homosexual tense. When I use the word gay I don't mean it in the that show Queer as Folk is so gay sense.

I tend to use the word gay in what can be construed as more of a hateful way. And I don't even mean it to come out that way. I tend to use it in the more nonsensical, idiotic or stupid way. Like that Christmas episode of 30 Rock was really gay. There was actually nothing gay about it. I just found it anticlimactic and disappointing. (But then again there was too much singing for my taste.)

I've been using the word gay since maybe 3rd grade, 1983, or the age of 8. Maybe and probably earlier. I remember the little card pocket in the back of school library books had the company name Gaylord on it and we'd all laugh about it. I want to say that was 1st grade but I can't say for sure. So where the hell am I going with this? Oh, I've been using the word gay for over 25 years and I'm not likely to stop anytime soon. I know I'm not even using it in the correct context but a quarter century of habit is going to keep that correct usage from being used.

I know I can say nonsensical, idiotic or stupid but it's a battle. I got off retarded and I'll eventually get off gay. And this just isn't coming out right.

Cliffs Notes Edition--if you're offended by the misuse of the word gay or the occasional misuse of the word retarded don't read my blog or don't get offended. I'm just spewing the internal nonsense in my head into a blog and I don't bother with editing too much. Oh, and I hate political correctness...

Three Four Into the Middle of Next Week

It's Friday night and that means a couple things as of right now. Or in this moment in time if you prefer.

First, the weekend starts (at the time I write this) in approximately one hour and eleven minutes. This means I won't have to listen to the opinionated, bone-smoking and random topic discussing shit weasel that sits within obvious and painful listening distance from me for a full four days. He talks too fast and sounds like his tongue is morbidly obese. To sweeten the situation, I get away from my main, full-time, bread and butter job. I've got to work my part-time record store gig on Saturday, but aside from battling boredom, stupidity and not being able to sleep in late it doesn't really feel a job and will hopefully be over before I know it.

But what's got me giddy is this weekend. Saturday's got the aforementioned work. Five hours, I get to harass my co-worker, maybe pick up The Wackness on DVD, possibly get a nap before my wife and daughter get home from the in-laws and maybe my wife will make dinner. Nice, nice, nice. But what I'm looking forward to is Saturday Night. And I'm not talking the TV show either. Going to Borders with my friend Diane* and seeing The Day the Earth Stood Still in IMAX. I'm not particularly excited for the movie itself and there are a few reasons behind this perspective. First off, it's a remake. A remake of one of the quintessential classic sci-fi movies with a gooey social commentary center I'd like to add. Can't be topped. Second, Diane already saw it. And it's usually a drag going to see a movie with someone who's already seen it. Unless they absolutely fucking love it, but going by her three-star review on Flixster.com I know this not to be the case. But since its in IMAX and she hasn't seen anything in an IMAX presentation, she's only too willing to pop her IMAX cherry. IMAX slut. But honestly, I just want to see Gort. In IMAX. Say it with me, IMAX. Good. Very good indeed.

What I'm looking forward to (and its entirely possible that I may be writing this after the actual event itself) is having possibly offensive but definitely personal conversation at the Borders cafe that may or may not make people wiggle.

Like a few weeks ago when Diane and I loaded up on caffeine before going to see a midnight screening of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I with my egg nog latte (pretentiously gay** drink but I'm a sucker for the nog--and yes, I am abundantly aware of the possible double entendre, thank you) and Diane with her... tea, I think. We were shooting the shit/killing time before the 11:55 show and discussed people we've had sex with in our respective pasts out of sheer boredom. We didn't name names or discuss any gory details but a small Asian woman looked up at us briefly, smiled and looked back down at whatever book or magazine she was perusing without missing a beat. Diane and I both laughed, not giving it too much thought and left it at that.

Then movie time rolled around and we got twisted*** in the parking lot of the theater. We made our way inside and because of my chattiness when under the influence*** I started a Mystery Science Theater 3000 version of the movie. We giggled much at the very off-color commentary I made not only through the trailers (Gran Torino was especially fun), but all throughout David Fincher's masterful and exceptionally saddening epic.

Then when the movie ends we're all tired because we're getting old. That and it's 3AM. Then we go to our respective homes.

Now things start to get a tad complicated. I write this a couple of hours after the part you may or may not have read mere paragraphs ago. An e-mail stating that Gran Torino from Diane might not be a bad way to go hits my inbox. Legend has it that this movie will be the last time that Clint Eastwood will act in a movie and the previews make his character out to be a crusty old version of Dirty Harry. Not Dirty Harry exactly, but if I get to hear some old people racism that never fails to make me laugh my ass off I'll be very happy. But time will tell. Or at least Saturday night will.

Sunday will likely be no big deal. First off, it's Sunday. What the hell happens on Sundays? I don't go to church, there's shit on TV. But my sister is coming over to cut my hair and my wife's got to work. I get to hang out with my daughter. She likes to run around the house and yell, but Sunday might be the day I introduce her to either Looney Tunes or the Marx Brothers. Or Last Tango in Paris. I haven't decided yet. Oh, and I've got to move my car over to the other side of the street between 4:30 and 5. The life I lead. The fucking life I lead. But then again it could be worse. My wife could be home that night and I could be forced to watch Desperate Housewives. Oh yeah. I said it.

Monday. My birthday. The big Three Four. I actually don't have any feelings about this particular (or the last few) birthday. I learned years ago that it doesn't matter and the only people who stress about or give much thought to their birthdays (it's okay to freak about ones that start a new decade. ex. 30,40, 50, etc.) are the ones who never let go of their teen angst. Either that or they've got such a high level of self-importance that the gravitational pull of their personality alone (don't even think about their ego--it's like looking into a black hole...!) could suck the very marrow out of your bones. Look it up--its a fact.

So its no big deal to me. I'm guessing my wife's got a chiropractic appointment, I better get to take a nap, we're probably going out to dinner at the restaurant my brother-in-law works at and later on I may or may not be going to my best friend's house. He's kind of bummed lately so maybe the level of idiocy that can only be attained when we're in each others company will be just the thing to not only serve as a great way to celebrate the only 34th birthday I'll ever have and get him out of his funk. We're like those glowing stones in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Except instead of mystic heat we generate the most enjoyable level of stupidity. Plus his girlfriend makes some great eats and when the conversation gets raw she doesn't get her panties in a knot.

Tuesday. The only reason I took off Tuesday is because my wife got a speeding ticket a few months ago. It just kind of worked out that it was the day after my birthday allowing me a 4-day weekend. My daughter and I are going to head to my grandmother's house and hang out with her. She's got the early stages of Alzheimer's and is starting to slip. My wife gets paid by my aunt to go over there a few hours a day to make sure my grandmother's not doing characteristically old woman things like using the oven to heat the house and not taking her meds. So I'm covering for my wife on Tuesday. And I pray to Gahd that my grandmother doesn't put ketchup in her chicken noodle soup like my wife says she does. I never heard of it before my wife told me about it and I've been trying to put it out my mind ever since. Have you ever heard of ketchup in chicken noodle soup? I want to die just knowing that someone thought that hellish combination up. Fuck me...!

Just for the record, I'm going to make every attempt to not fart out some contemplative, maudlin blog about turning another year older as I reflect on unattained goals and my own mortality as Monday gets closer. I'm generally way too busy to think about how I fucked up let alone figuring out ways to turn it all around. I don't work 3 (soon to be 4) jobs because I like fresh air and getting out of the house. Like I said, I'm going to try not to spout this crap out but this sort of thing has a way of rising to the surface anyway.

Oh, and the weekend started about 2 and a half hours ago for those keeping score.

*Not her real name

**See first blog

***Not saying on what