El Falso

I’ve seen this movie before

2005-03-18T09:37:00.000-06:00

I feel like I should be on spring break. Granted I turn 25 next week and have been in my post college years for almost 1000 days, but somebody – god or maybe the Easter bunny thinks I should be drinking a pina colada right now. If I wasn’t so stubborn to my capitalist life direction, I’d be drunk - well I guess I am drunk, but no the way I want to be.

I want to listen to certain kinds of music, the songs that make me feel like the world is still capable and free. If it wasn’t such crime, I’d certainly live on the beach and build sand castles for a living and I’d only eat the fish I could catch.
Somebody at work just told me to get some self-respect, apparently he doesn’t know who I am.

2005-01-15T13:14:00.000-06:00

My roommate is a dick. We’ve been awake since 8 AM and it’s Saturday. How does such a anomaly occur? Happy hour and me passing out by 8 PM. I guess I puked a little too because my mouth tastes like a cat made a baby in it.

I think the Jackie and the Jackettes episode of Made is my fav-o-wit Made episode ev-o. MTV must have traveled to Middle Earth to find that fat hobbit. They are airing the fuck out of this episode, if you need to feel better about your pathetic existence, Made is the medicine. Seriously, does MTV scour Magic Card conventions for potential Made candidates?

The drinking begins at 2 today.

2004-12-23T11:02:00.000-06:00

I don’t know where my head is. I am practically floating, barely working, listening to Bowie as I daydream about the beer I am going to drink tonight. September through present has been the worst period of my life, largely due to the appalling treatment I have received at the workplace. My confidence has been crushed, but I’m over it and you don’t want to listen to the drudges of corporate existence anyway. In fact, how many times can one gripe about the office yet render a piteous reaction?

As 2005 nears, I vow to change my life and transform my environment into the world I truly desire to experience. I urge everyone to find the spark in your heart and do the same. All too often we slip into normality, which leads to mediocrity and the certain drift into a lethargic trancelike life and death. Enough idealism, but sometimes the clichés are truth.

Don’t let the man get you down.
-Rick

I'm not dead

2004-12-04T21:51:00.000-06:00

Sure no one reads this blog, but regardless, I'm still alive and kicking - just been a little occupied. I'm back now.

For Shame!

2004-09-24T16:40:00.000-05:00

I haven’t posted in a week. I haven’t had much to say, even if I did, I haven’t had the time to say it.

For the record I went 10-6 on football picks last week, which puts me at 22-10 on the year. Not bad for a no talent ass-clown.

Other than perpetually hating life and homeless people that choose to bother me, I’ve been ecstatic. I’ve nearly been fired and my love life is better than ever! (Note: that line sounds like something a crazy person should be yelling in the middle of a crowded train station or something some middle aged guy should spout off after throwing a football through a tire swing in a commercial for boner pills.)

I don’t know if I have mentioned it in previous posts, but please do yourself the mother of all favors and get a 4-pack of Sparks. If you want to spend the evening in a tantalizing haze from caffeine and crazy pills, Sparks is the answer. Delicious and alcoholic!

Now on to my picks for the week:

Vikes over Bears
I crapped myself after the Bears beat the Pack at Lambeau, if Los Osos win again this week I am officially moving to Canada.

Joey Faclones over Cards, Mike Vick's break out game of the year, not a tough conclusion to make, but you heard it here first!

Ravens over Bungles, here’s one for all of you loser Cincinnati fans, guess what? The Bungles will finish last in the AFC North. Know what else? Your chili sucks.

Eagles over Lionesses, I have nothing mildly amusing nor offensive to say, I think T.O. is the biggest over hyped whiner in the NFL though.

Chiefs over Texans, oops I think I just puked in my mouth.

Steelers over Fish, garbage game of the week, but should be interesting to watch, rookie QB making his first career start (on the road) against a tough Miami D, Dave Wanstedt’s hair lip and one game closer to his inevitable firing, and the third week in a row that Ricky Williams gets high and watches his former team suck it up.

Browns over Giants, has Gozer the Gozarian (aka Kurt Warner’s wife) spouted her fat mouth to the NY media yet? PS - Nice crew cut.

Ramstien over All Saints, Angry German death rock versus Christian wuss-pop girl group? Please.

Titans over Jags, shouldn’t we be expecting Steve McNair’s first season threatening injury this week?

Broncos over Chargers, to be a sports fan in San Diego you are required to have your balls snipped off at birth just so you know full well how much the rest of your life is going to suck.

Colts over Packers, it’s either comeback game or fizzle for Favre, I’m going with the latter.

Seahawks over 49ers, can a week go by without a man versus bird match up?

Raiders over Bucs, your marquee pirate match up of the week.
Skins over Cowboys, Parcells versus Gibbs on Monday Night? Classic.

Football Picks

2004-09-17T17:13:00.000-05:00

I’m headstrong like a hooker in need of fix to post something new today (by the way I think I use cracked out hooker references more than anyone else), so in an attempt to be as unoriginal as possible yet maintain a semblance of regularity, I have decided to add a new dimension to my already vivacious blog: weekly football picks. Each Friday (unless of course there is a rare Thursday night game) I will post my picks along with some comments and my season long record. Also I’m not dealing with spreads, just outright winners. By the way I went 12-4 last week.

St. Louis over Atlanta
I hate St. Louis, I hate their fans, I hate Budweiser, Nelly and the arch, but I also think the ATL should stop pussyfooting around and run Vick, otherwise they aren’t going to win many.

Baltimore over Pittsburgh
Ray Lewis fought in a battle Royale against 10 Rottweillers this week, mainly because he was so pissed about last weeks loss, but also because he hates dogs.

Detroit over Houston
Even without Charles Rogers D-Town is going to raise a few eyebrows, but they’ll still finish third in the NFC North.

Denver over Jacksonville
Does anyone else think Byron Leffwich looks like a black and non-cartoon version of Porky Pig?

Carolina over Kansas City
Both of these teams are as overrated as they come, but an Indian Chief versus a jungle cat, please. (If you were wondering, I had nothing.)

New Orleans over San Francisco
Hi, I’m Ken Dorsey, I’ll be starting for the Niners this week. Nuff said.

Washington over New York Giants
I almost hate Eli Manning more than I hate Kurt Warner’s wife.

Indianapolis over Tennessee
Although Steve McNair is a sophisticated robot sent back through time to overcome all injuries, conquer the adversity of being a black quarterback in the South and change the future for the Titans, Peyton and the Ponies are not going to lose this one coming off a loss like last week.

Seattle over Tampa Bay
New England over Arizona
Did you notice that both of the previous two games pit man against bird?

Cleveland over Dallas
From Yahoo Fantasy Sports:
Sep 11 - Carmella DeCesare, Playboy's Playmate of the Year and the girlfriend of quarterback Jeff Garcia, was charged with assault from a bar fight last month. DeCesare allegedly "launched" herself at Kristen Hine, a former girlfriend of Garcia, several times after Hine confronted the couple at a club in Cleveland. Hines informed the police that as she turned to leave the club, DeCesare kicked her in the head.

A staged fight to prove your heterosexuality? Crafty move Garcia, I’ll take your fight and raise you a manicure a facial and a toy poodle.

Buffalo over Oakland
What if they took Bledsoe and Gannon and used them as the two washed up old guys on the new bachelor?

New York Jets over San Diego
San Diego is just poor and Drew Brees has an ugly mole.

Cincinnati over Miami
If you told me a year ago that I would be saying those three words I would have let you hit me with your car.

Philadelphia over Minnesota
Tough call, but wouldn’t it be cool if Randy Moss and T.O. would play both ways so they could cover each other? Guaranteed fight as well as a great stage for touchdown dance one-ups-man-ship. Seriously, would anyone be against this? (Stole that line from the Sports Guy)

Green Bay over Chicago
It’s tough to bet against your own team, especially when their opponent is also their biggest rival, but unless Ahman Green and Brett Farve accidentally drive to Chicago for the game, Da game Da Bears don’t have a prayer.

This post started out serious, but ended up being a total joke.

2004-09-16T11:06:00.000-05:00

What really matters anymore?

Society has become fixated on other peoples lives, their business, and ultimately their success (or failure). The current state of TV is an inundating barrage of the mindless stunts performed by casts of wannabe actors or more bluntly, countless brigades of good-looking people refusing to hold real jobs.

Not surprisingly, my mother informed me that she was “obsessed” with the Apprentice.

Obsessed with what?
The mind bending inter workings of the business world as seen through the eyes of 20-odd otherwise intellectual yet peculiarly good-looking entrepreneurs vying for a coveted seat in Trump’s empire? Or merely the inter workings of Trump’s toupee? Crap.

What happened to professing family values through the vehicle of network television?

Is real life really better than fake life?

How can kids learn right from wrong anymore? I’ll tell you one thing, not from Joe Rogan.

Crap, do you realize how many middle school kids are eating worms at this very moment to one day fulfill the dream of appearing on Fear Factor?

Fact: This year more American children are expected to be drawing on the walls with crayon, pulling hair, and lighting matches than any previous year.

Fact: The North American bullfrog is expected to be extinct by 2007 because of the skyrocketing number of deaths by way of ass inserted firecracker.

Fact: This year more foreign kids are expected to be made fun of and have their underwear torn than any previous year.

The reason: Reality TV, Satan, and candy bars.

Stick an IV into my vein and pump me full of Alex P. Keaton and Mr. Belvidere.

Siblings need the brotherly banter of Arnold and Willis, just as roommates need the perpetual misunderstandings of the Three’s Company gang. How can anyone possibly know what is cool without the Fonze?

People need unrealistic model families to detach themselves from the harsh-sickass realities of society. What can possibly be the outcome of reality shows besides making other people feel inadequate?

We need you now more than ever Balki and Cousin Larry.

By the way, I watched the finale of UPN’s ‘The Player’ and let me just say, it was FANTASTIC!

-Rick

Guest thought from Thomas

2004-09-16T10:14:00.000-05:00

How come the kid in ET never made it big? Is it because he did not go the route of Barrymore by getting wasted in an 80's club at age 13? Think of other young, pop-culture personas that never did anything truly substantial other than the one (or two in Ralph Machio's case) landmark feature film. Not to relegate this to the 80's either. Paging Eddie Furlong.......

-T

I hate the Cubs

2004-09-10T15:19:00.000-05:00

Lets recap, it’s August 26th the Cubs have just won 8 out of 9, the wild card seems like a cinch, with a seemingly unthreatening September schedule the team appears poised to cruise.

Fast forward to August 29th, Cubs blow an opportunity to throw Houston in a basket for deep frying as the cock-bag Astros take 3 of 4 at Wrigley, a nightmarish tailspin ensues.

If you want to find me this weekend, I’ll be drunk and belligerent and wailing about baseball and how I don’t have a girlfriend.

-Rick

2004-09-08T15:54:00.000-05:00

It’s almost 4 o’clock, I have barely finished the work that should have been completed yesterday, I have more deadlines looming than I care to explain, yet I’m starving to write something just to fucking write.

I was on the boat this weekend and as we skipped across the water and the wind blew through my hair I couldn’t have felt more liberated. My mind was racing with ideas, things I don’t think I can tell anybody, but for some reason I thought I could tell someone, someone that I didn’t know so well, someone like Bunny Mcintosh (even though I bet she would hate me if she knew who I really was and by that I mean how I look and who I hang out with and my engraved economic views) or someone in a band or someone that had feelings different from a corporate monkey. And it all seemed logical and then I nearly convinced myself that it would be acceptable to quit my job and become a fisherman or a carpenter or a writer that can’t really write. Maybe it was all stupid and shallow, maybe I should stop whining and do a job and collect a paycheck, maybe a novel idea would be to bring back mustaches and stonewash at the same time. Then I think about liking the things I like and I wonder if it’s possible to breathe at a level that wouldn’t support such luxuries. And I go on about disposable income and how I can go to the Cubs game when it’s a nice night out or buy countless and ultimately cluttering objects or spend $400 a weekend on booze or fly to Vegas on a whim and not think twice. But perhaps in the end if I could try and write, but people want controversy and politics and few things peeve me more than unbridled and unfounded political banter, so instead I blab about nonsense and drinking and crap, which teleports me back to my reality. Now I hate it again, this city, this job, this life, and it all feels kind of like kissing your sister, even though it’s a girl, something isn’t right. Then again I don’t have a sister, so my perception is skewed.

-Rick

2004-09-07T15:49:00.000-05:00

I’m dried up today, physically and mentally, yet my weekend was fantastic. The fresh air and allure of a simplistic lifestyle left an enticing flavor in my mouth. At times during the weekend I felt as if I had attained a heightened sense of being, it was almost trance like. Clean air does wonders for the soul, that being said, I still managed to fall in love with a stripper named Asia, for some reason these girls always seem like they need to be saved.

I hope everyone had as peaceful and calming a weekend as I did. Back to the grindstone.

My world is vacant of stimulating ideas right now; therefore, post requests will be furnished to a degree I see fit or made fun of. Send email to Rick_Blog@yahoo.com or post requests as comments.

-Rick

Random Crap

2004-09-02T14:21:00.000-05:00

I’m parting with the city for a weekend and venturing northward to enjoy some overdue fresh air and because I entirely intend to misuse the day at work, I’ve decided to compile a post laden with nonsense, free thought, and the depth of a kiddie pool. Enjoy.

There is always time and money for ice cream and strippers.

Newborn babies frighten me sometimes, so do tall women in business suits.

If a bum that reeks of excrement stands near you on the train, will they be offended if you move away?

Fictional character or not, Dylan McKay is the coolest person to ever walk this earth; subsequent to ample research, I intend to devote an entire post to this phenomenon.

I want a girl that will tell me everything is going to be all right, even if nothing is wrong.

Chewing gum too long makes me gag; wearing tight shoes makes me nauseous.

Bigger wuss rock band, the irrelevant Air supply or the more contemporary yet ultimately irrelevant Matchbox 20? Tune to your local soft rock station and cast your vote.

Speaking of voting, is anyone else SO tired of MTV’s ‘Choose or Lose’ campaign that they want to chug a bottle of Tabasco and then vomit it all over the TV screen? I already know the answer to this, but regardless, those crappy commercials that are telling kids to “vote for something” are insanely awful. I wish they would throw in a curveball during the late night MTV programming lineup, like “vote for open container laws” or “vote for the legalization to keep a cougar as a pet” or “vote to make ninjas the official police force” or “vote to blow up France” or “vote to help Ben Affleck not suck” or “vote to get Britney into Playboy”.

How come I always feel less hetero when I call another guy ‘baby’? Yet Vince Vaughn does it in every movie and every time he sounds more badass.

Each White Castle Slider has 160 calories and 9 grams of fat. Three of us are sharing a Crave Case on the ride up North, I’ll let you do the math.

Biggest personal mistake ever?
Not staying in graduate school.
Second biggest mistake ever?
Touching my wiener after handling hot peppers.

Nothing gets me more amped than listening to ‘You’re the Best’ from the Karate Kid soundtrack, unless of course I’m offered free whiskey, free food, or a ride on an airboat.

Why can I not help from calling the uglier Kerry sister Horse Face Killah?

Doesn’t John Kerry always look kind of stoned?
“Dude…I mean Sir, I think they know we’re high.”
“Play it cool man and get me some Funyuns.”

My friend tried to convince me that if I fought a Chimpanzee (no biting allowed) I would lose, can anyone verify this?

Does anyone else think that Kobe’s wife might be kind of miffed that the charges got dropped? After the initial charges she had the ‘I’m super pissed off, but I’m going to stand by my man face,’ yet all along I was convinced that she was sticking with him because she was secretly hoping for a conviction, that way she would have full access to all of Kobe’s money while he spooned with a guy named Rocco in a bunk somewhere in Colorado. Over/under on number days until she files for divorce?

It’s like it was predestined that Britney would turn into a skank at the exact same time Christina decided to clean her act up.

If Satan was human, I bet he’d look like Carlos Boozer painted red.

All right I’m done with you.

-Rick

2004-09-01T16:47:00.000-05:00

It’s 4:30 and I’m brain dead. If I could tell you what I do for a living you’d probably hate me, but it’s ok to like me because I hate my job. My superiors are obscenely abrasive, so unpalatable that some days I imagine that I am mush hound pulling a dog sled through hell because it seems more pleasant. I’m offered few surprises or moments of excitement, when something interesting does happen I relish the day as if somebody delivered a barrel of whiskey to my doorstep. Today would have been one of those days, but instead the surprise caused me pure angst and near breakdown.

I was returning from lunch and nearly collapsed after realizing a grave oversight: my secretary’s daughter is smoking hot! How did something like this evade my awareness? I was nearly in tears, I felt so ashamed, so cheated. I have walked past her picture every day for 15 months and never even bothered to look. It’s like the pictures appeared out of thin air to tempt me into fury. Something uncomplicated like this could have stalled my apathy, chilled my burnout, gave me something to look forward to every day, but the pictures appear now, when I’m near the end of my rope, a last effort to secure my fate. This was the work of the devil or the St. Louis Cardinals organization, I’m certain.

-Rick

2004-08-30T09:41:00.000-05:00

I’m going though one of those ‘what does it all mean?’ Monday morning things. I hate it, it’s weekly inevitable torture, I know when it’s coming, how long it is going to last, and it makes me as surly as a hooker at the free clinic. It’s kind of like having a period, only less messy and without the cramps and sweatpants.

On a lighter note, the two lines of the weekend that nearly bought me a broken nose:

(To some guy undoubtedly named Guido or Carmine, who also happened to be wearing a shiny shirt.)
“That guy has enough hair gel in his hair to start a forest fire.”

(To a guy wearing an Astro’s hat at the Cubs game.)
“Dude, you’ve got some shit on your hat, you’d better wipe it off, uh oh, I think it’s permanent.”

-Rick

Bunny

2004-08-28T13:10:00.000-05:00

If you don't think Bunny Mcintosh is cool, I don' t think I can have a conversation with you.

-Rick

2004-08-28T11:08:00.000-05:00

Too many people want to hang out with me, since I can't hang out with everybody, I get too wasted and don't hang out with anybody.

-Rick

Hey now, Hey now, don't dream it's over.

2004-08-24T11:03:00.000-05:00

The inevitable occurred early Sunday morning

Looking back, I don’t even know if I consider 15 days much of an accomplishment. In the end it seems rather pathetic, like the USA Basketball team or anything Ben Affleck touches. (What’s more pathetic is the fact that I just referenced a Crowded House song.) Honestly, I never expected to last very long and since 15 days seemed like an eternity, 40 would have been as painful as a Spike Lee film.

Also, I apologize for not sounding the horn sooner, but work has been hectic and until I get paid to scribe dribble or marry the fatter Olsen twin, work comes first.

Although some of you might desire to know the very intricacies of the culminating event, the details of the collapse shall remain left to the imagination.

-Rick

336 hours

2004-08-20T14:18:00.000-05:00

I feel like…crap. This day is moving at a devastatingly slow pace and the three pounds of taco bell I ate for lunch are not helping.

It’s not that I’m constantly thinking about sex, I’m thinking about girls and what makes them tick, why they do what they do, wear what they wear, make me feel funny. That’s why I’m doing this celibacy thing, I’ve drifted into a whole different dimension, I’ve began noticing odd subtleties that any normal bloodthirsty young man wouldn’t. Granted it’s made me fidgety and idiosyncratic, but I’m seeing something different.

-Rick

Morning, Day 14

2004-08-20T10:16:00.000-05:00

Two weeks down and I’m only getting crazier.

I’m better now than last night, hung over, but better. My lapse in judgment combined with warm draft beer lead to near breakdown, thank god for pizza. It’s uncanny how food is about the only thing that can avert a man’s eyes from sex.

-Rick

Late day 13 early day 14

2004-08-20T01:07:00.000-05:00

I'm wasted and I can barely control myself. I made a crucial error tonight and went to meet a girl at a bar one day too late, typical. Still, I'm about as nervous as they come, I'm losing it, I don't know how much longer this can last.

-Rick

mid-Day 13

2004-08-19T13:15:00.000-05:00

I left my iPod at work last night, which rendered me sans entertainment for the morning train ride, this only led to my head spinning like the exorcist any time a girl wearing a skirt walked through the door.

I can’t express in words how fidgety I have become. Right now I’m a notch below Rainman twitchy, but a notch above George McFly; I’ll be a zombie by week three for sure.

I still can’t decide whether it is creepy or not to find the US women’s gymnastics team hot.

-Rick

Day 12

2004-08-18T22:53:00.000-05:00

Everthing is hot, I think I even checked out a sheepdog just because it had long hair, open toed shoes drive me nuts and I am more nervous today than yesterday. I think I am developing X-ray vision or just staring a lot.

-Rick

2004-08-17T16:05:00.000-05:00

Lately my intoxicated exploits have drawn question. On Saturday’s I become a robotic caricature of myself, constantly walking a precarious tightrope between humor and obscene annoyance. I routinely find myself forced by some inner obligation to put on the drunken guise. I wake up Sunday mornings in fear that the preceding night’s actions have burned the bridges that I value on a sober basis. Does this make me an alcoholic? Thomas argues that intoxicated unpredictability is what keeps life interesting and prevents the scary and inevitable shift into normalcy. I’m starting to worry.

On a less serious note, I’ve refrained from any sexual activity/ejaculation for eleven days, which in some ways seems like a long time and in others not long at all. In an effort to cross into the realm of tacky movie themes, as well as to provide reason for short blog commentary on a daily basis, I am assuming a 40-day vow of celibacy.

Impossible? Most likely.
Cheap ploy for attention? Absolutely.

I believe that the single action that will lead to breaking the vow is blacking out and hooking up. Although I cannot promise that the lures of Miller Lite and bar skanks won’t render the vow unaccomplished, I will refrain from any sexual contact while I am sober enough to control myself. Additionally, if I break the vow by hooking up while wasted, I prove that taking on such a vow is impossible if a) you are not ugly and b) you drink heavily on a regular basis.

Today I will provide a few observations from the past eleven days:
The first five days were the hardest (yet).
I have been extremely busy at work, which has caused immense stress and has kept my mind off of sex.
Since the end of week one, my sexual appetite has diminished to a point that is almost scary, yet I have noticed myself finding some girls attractive that I would not normally find attractive.
I have been frigidity to the point where I have started biting my nails more frequently.
I feel like I am not as hungry as usual.

Odds are that I won’t make it through the weekend or even the night.
-Rick

Monday on Thursday and not much else

2004-08-12T15:33:00.000-05:00

This was Monday:
Another train delay, the unrelenting urge to call into work and the fact that yesterday somehow cost me 100 bucks are only three reasons why I am nearly catatonic. I keep finding myself staring blankly into my computer screen, filled with anxiety re my apparent ineptness in dealing with the pressures of corporate culture. Any second I am going to lapse into black out and imagine that I am fighting ninjas with Chuck Norris…wait that was Jonathan Brandis’ character in the movie Side Kicks, anyway I feel about as spacey as that kid was…

Now it’s Thursday and Monday’s post is still unfinished and going to remain that way. I was depressed because I was still hungover and the two days I love most were history, it was one of those days where I was entirely unable to comprehend the future. You could have told me that I was going to win the lottery, it wouldn’t matter - hope did not exist. What a sad depressing bastard I can be, maybe I should quit drinking.

Despite hating life on Monday, last weekend provided a change of pace. Tom and I fought off the urge to binge all day Saturday and instead I napped on the couch while he rustled around the apartment like a retarded monkey with ADD. Saturday was a late night, we saw Green Guy play records until 3 and I made friends with two pairs of man hating lesbians while Tom puked in the urinal then denied it. Afterwards I met a girl at a late night bar, but forgot her name within five minutes, which wouldn’t have mattered if she hadn’t called me on Tuesday. As of now I am going to call her girl or hey. What an idiot I am. I’ve blown something that I never had in the first place, which is undoubtedly one of my most central character qualities. Do I own up to my mistake or play along until the opportunity presents itself for her to reveal the name? There’s the rub.

-Rick

2004-08-06T16:04:00.000-05:00

The morning train smelled like the bad can of tuna I tried to eat for dinner last night. It was more crowded than usual because an “equipment problem” caused a 15-minute delay at my station, thus allowing subsequent stops to overfill with waiting passengers as the result of decreased train frequency. By the third stop after mine I was subject to an armpit in my face and an umbrella up my ass, very unpleasant. Although the train was excessively crowded with frustration this morning, I frequently ponder the idea of train socialization. The truth is that social interaction on the train is virtually non-existent, everyone is nameless and virtually faceless, because eye contact is avoided at all times. I don’t understand. Why do people in a confined space avoid all social interaction? Truly baffling.

I convinced Thomas to go out tonight, despite some resistance. Hopefully happy hour will kill the scratch in my throat, which right now feels like I swallowed a cheese grater.

In some sad new, Rick James passed away at 56 of “natural causes”. Does a 30-year coke binge qualify as natural causes? By the time Rick James and I are chained together shoveling shit in hell, my liver is going to resemble wet road kill. I can only dream that they will throw the “natural causes” tag on my toe.

As the last few minutes of Friday afternoon lull away the week’s tension, I can all but promise a fan-TAS-tic story on Monday, then again remembering the weekend is paramount in order to predicate a story. All I can say is that I feel it, like a pompous athlete ensuring a victory, this one is gonna be good.
-Rick

Girls that talk about sex are not sluts

2004-08-05T13:07:00.000-05:00

The sweet but not so innocent ThatAshleyGirl was miffed the other day after her promiscuous words landed her the label of “slut”. Hear it from me, girls that talk about sex are not sluts, morally flexible and verbally unbridled are terms to come to mind, but not slut.

I believe that a distinction exists between the male and female perception of the opposite sex’s objective for speaking sexually. Men are unaware of such a dichotomy, as we presume inspired masculinity by boasting of our sexual exploits and we assume that any girl that is willing to talk about sex wants drop down and go at it right then and there. Granted, women that choose to speak candidly about sex, in the presence of men, are not exempt from the intent to tempt or taunt men, but the assumptions that guys conjure regarding female sex talk are ludicrous.

It boils down to the question of whether it is preferable to feel empowered in the eye of other members of your own sex and lusted after by the opposite sex or to impress the members of your own sex and repulse the opposite sex. I choose the former. Yet I still believe that some women, who provide unsolicited information about sex, are attempting to gain personal release or to invoke a certain reaction by offering up such privileged info.

An additional disparity exists in the content of sexual free-speech, girls talk about what they enjoy in a sexual experience and guys extrapolate upon their experiences. It is a full circle mind game that no one will ever win. Take MTV’s the Real World, which has rapidly evolved into a haven for irresponsibility, yet maintains a social terrarium such that the views of both sexes are solicited in response to intra-roommate events. However, the reactions to the sexual situations differ between sexes, regardless of the significance of the event. Thus a he said she said interpretation game evolves; miscommunication wins this match. Crap, haven’t you ever watched Three’s company!

What guy hasn’t listened to his friend ponder possibly the biggest frat-boy mystery of all time:

“Do you think if I went up to a hot girl and told her that all I wanted to do was go down on her, she would say yes? I’d say yes if a girl said that to me.”

Of course you would! This is the best idea that will never ever work, just like communism. (If anyone has defied science and accomplished such a feat, I solcit your story.) Why? Because girls operate on a different plane, a communication barrier exists, and girls know that anyone that would offer such a proposition is LYING! Start small, offer her a drink, maybe she’ll let you touch her boob.

Back to Ashley, I don’t care if she is hot or not and I think that’s her point. I relish in the anonymity of the Internet and I lapse into seizure-like hysteria when I think about all of the sick assholes that want to hump the leg of any girl that writes her blog about sex. For all we know, Miss Ashley is some hippy grad student conducting an ethnology or better yet, a pervert that likes to pretend he’s a 21 year old sex puppet with a flat stomach.

I do not doubt Ashley’s identity; I am merely proposing the possibility. (Has anyone else considered the power of sex defining colors? I saw a pink template and didn’t think twice. This is an entire masters thesis.)

I love the simplicity of the male mind.

-Rick

2004-08-03T16:03:00.000-05:00

I feel unmistakably improved today, yet gratifying slumber was practically nonexistent last night. Even so I have felt dried up lately, deficient of the flux I have been used to in the past. At least Thomas’ blog is up and running like a crack whore from the police, which will hopefully present the opportunity for intra-apartment banter or space for me to dispel his lies.

Lack of participation put the weekend’s camping plans on hold, looks like I’ll be spending another weekend blacked out in the city. Is it my refusal to grow up that results in chronic weekend inebriation or is it a deeper need to bypass reality for 48 hours? Lately stress has been at an all time Rashweed Wallace high, thus I tend to believe the latter, yet shouldn’t maturity present outlets independent of drinking? Maybe it’s an infatuation with my own un-sober mechanics that leads me down the late night burrito path week after week or worse, ineptness to endure the social scene in sober view? When does it end? Will the rigidity of eventual marriage lay waste to my social routine? Will a woman force me to pitch my adolescent ways with the ripped pair of khakis she will inevitably hate? Am I the Peter Pan of drinking?

-Rick

Thomas' Blog

2004-08-02T21:34:00.000-05:00

Check out Thomas' blog
-Rick

Saturday 7/31

2004-08-02T17:40:00.000-05:00

Guess who couldn’t sleep last night? Stress, an unrelenting heartbeat, apprehension about every facet of my life, being 24 is not supposed to be like this. Lack of sleep lends to an apathetic day at work; however, as I just learned from thatashleygirl, being depressed isn’t fun for anybody and really isn’t worth reading about.

So I decided to write a little bit about this weekend’s exploits in Chicago. Do I mind that people know I live Chicago? No, not really, as long as my coworkers, bosses, mother or ex-girlfriend are not reading, I’m fine with every other psycho being aware that I live somewhere in the third largest city in the country.

Here’s a short recap of Saturday:

The day began and ended in total mayhem. Around 4:00 Thomas and I joined the DA and his friends at the beach, only to discover that if I was nice to the bartender, she would throw a floater on the top of my Pina Colada. Six Pina Colada’s prefaced by five of what The Sports Guy calls a Diver Down (Corona with a shot of Bacardi Limon) led to premature blackout. By 7:30 I was bleeding from an injury sustained from a game we invented involving a rather large tree branch.

Around 8:00 after a short stop at the Lodge, we began our walk home to change into more appropriate attire for the greater part of the evening. By this point I had succumbed to the usual pressures from my comrades and transformed into a flamboyant lunatic. Accordingly, I was dancing and socializing with anyone that would permit me. The news of the Nomar trade hurled me into a seizure of Boston impersonations and by 10:00 my vocabulary was exclusive to “No-Mahhh!!” and “That’s wicked hard core!!!” Truly lame, yet entirely predictable.

We spent the next few hours of the evening stretching further into blackout, some guests arrived at our place, a pseudo party ensued and I killed time drinking more and eating less. I fell down the stairs and apparently disappeared from the bar before midnight, only to be discovered passed out in my bed wearing only one sock. There is really no lesson here, besides the fact that Diver Downs are delicious, yet about the most dangerous drink this side of the Irish Car Bomb or straight Whiskey.

Other that the aforementioned notes, I wanted to propose that the success of this blog relies heavily on feedback of the readers, more feedback, will lead to more motivation for me to barf up some semblance of a post. There is a link for my email address in my profile, I will do my best to reply or post your crap.

Alright I’m done with you.

Check out Thomas’ blog, should be up soon.

-Rick

2004-07-31T11:28:00.000-05:00

I'm hungover. Last night was mediocre. I want to stab a coat hanger in my ear because my roommate is listening to Jason Mraz. Should I disappointed because last night sucked? I feel like a waste because I drank so much yet nothing notable occurred. I think this should be the topic of a more conceived post. Maybe I am spoiled - I am an only child, apparently it's my nature. The bouncer at Smartbar wouldn't let me in, to hell with that guy. I just threw a beer can at a Cardinal for reasons you should know.

Thomas' spin off blog blog will be up soon - it's about damn time that asshole got the nerve. He wanted me to say that it's going to be awesome, el falso.

-Rick

The Perfect Girl

2004-07-30T15:48:00.000-05:00

The train smelled like a women’s bathroom this morning, an intolerable marriage of bad perfume and feminine napkins - I almost puked in my mouth. Regardless, it was a dreary humid morning, but not too warm and the period smell was enough to mask the stench emanating from a sleeping bum’s nutsack. Still, I prefer to avoid huffing cheap perfume and PMS, which leads into a story.

Last night at the bar, an irritable punk girl made an unsolicited attempt at dissecting the intricacies of my character as well as that of my friends. This irked me, maybe too much and not for the content of her judgments, but for her crass and arrogant decision to offer judgment at all. It was all completely unwarranted, I wanted to rip into her or smash a saltshaker on her already broke nose, then tell her to go eat something because her emaciated figure appeared to be somewhat of an issue. Maybe it was her punk way of flirting, I didn’t care, her comments were irreverent and shallow, which in the end, is a rather evident point. My qualm of the day lies in the pattern of socialization that my friends and I have apparently contracted. Is it my depressing ill fate to only meet girls that are boring or intolerable in some other aspect of character?

What is redeemable of a negative soulless too skinny punky chick? Nothing, I didn’t like her in the first place and I was not hitting on her when conversation broke between us, but the whole dame situation just pissed me off. In an attempt to right my perpetual dilemma, I am going to take a shot at designing my perfect girl, I am certain I will neglect some aspects and some of the characteristics that I do mention are flexible, as I am a flexible person. So if you fit the mold and in turn long for my compassion and obvious sense of style, I solicit your email.

She is sweet and thoughtful, cheery and friendly, and when she walks in a room it gets brighter. She likes to be spontaneous and rarely takes responsibility (too) seriously. She’s risky, she would up and move to a new city, even if the all of pieces didn’t fit. She likes sports, but doesn’t claim to be an expert. She cheers for a team and gets excited when they win. She’ll watch a football game with me without asking too many questions; she’ll let me go watch a football game with the guys and won’t ask any questions. She knows how to separate friends from boyfriend. She gets a little jealous, but in a cute way. She is smarter than me, but allows me to win the occasional argument. She has her own dreams and is willing to share them, but she is also interested in mine. She values family and would like to have one of her own someday. She doesn’t feel forced by her family or mine. She drinks, sometimes too much and she doesn’t have a problem spending an afternoon or evening or entire day sitting at a bar. She likes beer. She likes getting drunk and can manage a night of bingeing without fighting or crying. She knows how to spend a day hungover on the couch. She’s not a picky eater and she loves late night burritos. She appreciates eclectic music, but loves pop. She surprises me. She will clean up after me (kind of slipped that one in there). She pays attention to pop culture, celebrity gossip, and reality TV. She is funny and appreciates subtle humor. She likes the movie Bottle Rocket. She laughs at my jokes and only rolls her eyes occasionally at the crudeness of my friends. She doesn’t mind conversation with my friends and can always come up with something to talk about. She likes to people watch. She loves enjoying the out doors and likes to go camping. She likes getting dressed up, but doesn’t feel unattractive dressed down. She is a little girly, but can be tough if she needs to. She knows how to act in public situations, i.e. work functions, restaurants, family parties, etc. She likes to wear my clothes. She will stay up with me if I can’t sleep. She is sexy and likes sex. She isn’t conservative with sex, but likes it to be sweet. She doesn’t talk badly about other people. She knows what to say when I am upset and understands how to settle a fight. She has cute feet and smells pretty. She is happy.

Well, that’s all, am I asking for too much?

-Rick

The Damn Cubs

2004-07-23T16:11:00.000-05:00

I am an optimistic person, by nature I always trust that the door will swing my way, that the lady at Chipotle will not rip my burrito when she rolls it, that someday I’ll find a nice girl. Maybe it’s out of laziness or the willingness to let fate run its course, or maybe I rely on things that aren't real in order to avoid the responsibility of reality, whichever, it’s a release of sorts. However, a certain fixation of mine befuddles my irreverence to reality: the Chicago Cubs. The curse, if you want to call it that, I believe in it. The damn Billy Goat, whatever, something wicked haunts my team. Cubs’ fans dare not conjure up hope, as any glimpse of light will be crushed in an instant if the baseball gods feel it too strong. This season began so anticipated, so touted, so overwhelmed with passion and excitement, maybe a let down was all too inevitable. But the team, throughout all the toil that this season has presented, has maintained a small degree of competitiveness, but now the Cubs are in the midst of a collapse; a hideous spiral that has left them passed out in a urinal, coated in somebody else’s throw up and about to get pissed on.

So what do I do? Sometimes I cry or just walk around looking sad, I pray to the baseball gods, I invent ludicrous superstitions, I wish that Mark Prior will turn into a werewolf so that he can throw 200 mph fastballs, I seek guidance in my horoscope, I hope that Busch Stadium will get demolished by an errant missile or a sweet asteroid, I try to buy good karma in any way possible; I have taken a bum to eat at McDonald’s, I give the money back when I am given too much change, I pet 15 dogs in one day, I stopped peeing in my neighbors’ flower pots, can you build good karma by not doing something? I don’t think so, but you get the point.

The point is that I am a sad little bastard with nothing better to do than pine over a baseball team. Anyway, I wrote the following paragraphs after Game 7 of last season’s NLCS. This might have been the most disappointing day of my life, I gave my Kerry Wood jersey away to some old lady in hope of abolishing the game’s ill fate, I was dejected, I felt cheated out of something that I deserved, I went nuts, I was most certainly drunk, but I was trying to be poetic.

Well it’s all over. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t truly heartbroken. The Cubs have granted their fans a priceless gift these past few months; the ride has been genuinely unbelievable. Everyone hoped Kerry had one more gem in that arm but, and I say this in jest, you can’t win em’ all. We all know it’s just a game, but it’s not the game we love, it’s the team. I feel like Kerry Wood and Mark Prior are my drinking buddies, Kenny Lofton is the family friend that you call uncle even though he really isn’t related to you, Antonio Alfonseca is the guy that got into the fraternity that no one really likes, in some way, we have formed personal relationships with a group of men that we will probably never meet.

Wrigleyville and Chicago have a melancholy mood. The morning “L” ride was dreary and depressing, too much rehashing of the nightmares known as games six and seven. I am tired of hearing things like, we should have won game six or no one expected them to go this far. We didn’t lose because of a curse and we certainly did not lose because of a fan’s interference. Feel sorry for Steve Bartman, Tuesday October 14th will be a day that he can never forget, it may ruin his life. I love the Cubs and I love Chicago. So what if the ‘lovable loser’ moniker is renewed for one more year, this time ‘wait til’ next year’ is refreshingly not cliché.

As the current season continues to unravel at a seemingly unrecoverable pace, I look back at that day and what I wrote, and at first I feel even more deceived. Last year was our chance, what now? 10 games back and sliding like a greased pig on a water slide. Apparently, ‘wait til’ next year’ is still ever cliché.

This season feels like the situation when an outwardly good kid gets involved in some sort of tragic or unlawful ordeal or jumps out of a window after sniffing crazy glue or something, then the town gossip spreads and everyone’s mother is saying crap like “he had such potential”, followed by claims such as “I always had a bad feeling about that kid”, bullshit.

We’re at the juncture of the season downfall when people like my mother begin going completely nuts and blaming anything and everything, all the while making outrageous and irrational claims. My mother even rendered the opinion that she should be managing the Cubs because she once coached a girl’s park district softball team, yet I still have to explain that the home team always bats in the bottom of the inning. Don’t buy bad hype, unless it’s about St. Louis (AKA St. Ass – stole that one from some drunk dude at the game last week and I like it.)

So as we dangle by a very thin thread, I still have a reason to believe. Everything is going to be alright. Listen to me, the heart of Wrigleyville is still intact, I feel the vibe every day, the beer is still cold, the ivy is green, and rest assured Ronnie Woo-Woo is wooing and annoying people somewhere. So I propose a simple question: Is the world saturated with hope right now? Rather we are quite devoid of it. People need teams like the Cubs, teams that are down and out, a comeback to get behind, a hero.
Never give up and if I end up writing two more paragraphs of pappy crap after a sad game this October, I’ll welcome any jarring as I look forward to next season.

Another weekend ends predictably

2004-07-12T16:34:00.000-05:00

I really have nothing insightful to offer, another hangover that has lasted well into Monday, more white flip-flops, disgrace, moral demise, the usual routine. I am not certain how my self-destructive lifestyle matches up to that of others in my demographic. Sometimes this insecurity scares me into a spiraling fit of depression, which usually caps off Tuesday, maybe Wednesday afternoon depending on the gravity of my weekend heroics. Yet, without falter, I am self-convinced to do the damn thing all over again come Friday. When does it end? Insight and/or therapy would be appreciated.

A few thoughts:
The precedent that is being set by some of these huge contracts being offered to mid-level NBA players is staggering. I am on the edge of my seat waiting for the headline: “CELTS SIGN AIR-BUD TO EIGHT YEAR $90 MILLION CONTRACT.”

This is the first year in at least five that the MLB All-Star game jerseys do not look like pajamas or something that should have a giant Tweety Bird on the back. Glad to see that MLB finally got their act together and fired chief designers Kriss Kross.

I am genuinely disappointed that Jr. Griffey will be absent from the HR derby lineup for the reason of a sore hammy. I always liked the backwards hat thing and thought it to be an awesome punk out to all of the other guys. It was sort of like how Johnny Lawrence in the Karate Kid wore the black headband, that way you knew that he was the leader of the Cobra Kai and not to fcuk with him.

The Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen “Got Milk” ads were pulled out of “sensitivity to their current situation.” Holy crap, I have an idea - keep the ads, put Scary-Kate on a diet of whole milk, cookies, and stuffed crust pizzas, in a few weeks maybe we can stop using her wispy figure as a skeletal model for high school anatomy class, little girls everywhere will begin to eat again and maybe we can turn make America back into the fat nation that it is supposed to be. Isn’t anyone else sick of this seemingly never-ending diet craze?

-Rick

Rest of the weekend

2004-07-09T15:38:00.000-05:00

I got so wasted last night.

Crap, starting anything out like that makes me sound like a college freshman or my mom, but I guess I felt this was an ultra cliché yet apropos way to begin this post. (I don’t care what you think.)

Although a new post about the rest of last Saturday night was promised, as usual, I was unreliable and I could not produce, as work had me by the balls. But today is a new day and after showing up two hours late to work (still drunk) I’m ready to roll. I wrote that last sentence 3 hours ago, things come up I guess.

Regardless, I think I am still still drunk. It is inexplicable how sustainable the state of half-cocked wastedness is, am I the only one out there that turns into a giddy idiot the day after a substantial bender? I hope not.

I intended to write about last weekend’s escapades today, but I changed my mind and we are not going to do that anymore. However, I will bullet some of the weekend’s more despicable highlights.

· Post 11 PM Friday night I manage to get punched in the face by some dude because I am sucking face with his girlfriend, Zman tries to fight the guy, but falls instead, furthering the elbow injury. We all get kicked out.
· Injury tally: Swollen knee compete with Vietnam vet/Lt. Dan with fake legs at the end of Forrest Gump limp, fat bloody lip, Zman’s busted up elbow.
· Apparently I am a skilled enough drunk to get kicked out of 2 more bars after the fight; maybe I should get some self-respect.
· Saturday begins with lovemaking, el falso, instead we ring in the 10 o’clock hour with the tub of 50 beers Zman and T stole from a vacated party on their way home last night, thanks for throwing a weak party and not being able to finish all the beer whoever you are.
· Saturday night, the nurses have a real nice soiree and apparently yours truly supplied the following quote, “You girls are like hot…and Indian.” Don’t remember it, but don’t doubt it.
· Sunday morning 10 AM, Nurse Watts in a very frustrated mood, “Don’t you guys ever sleep!?!”
· Nathan’s Famous hotdog eating contest airs at 11 AM, Takeru Kobayashi chugs 53.5 hotdogs and buns, furthering my opinion that competitive eating is impressive shit and furthering my other opinion about girls who use a gag reflex as an excuse, I’m not even going to get into it. For more on competitive eating check out www.ifoce.com if you have life to waste.
· More binge drinking
· Blasted by noon after half a bottle of Friday’s Strawberry Shortcake drink mix and a bottle of wine, I guess it’s something to brag about, if you are impressed by dudes that support foolish drinking habits and fruity cocktails.
· Amends are made with the bar after we realize I told a certain bouncer that I wished he were dead.
· Thomas laughs in the face of better judgment and does 9 Jager bombs in a half hour.
· Zman convinces me to chew tobacco, further establishing the fact that I am an idiot.
· Sometime after the bars closed I puzzlingly venture across town to Shady’s place, realize he isn’t home and do the next logical thing, which apparently is ripping the bars off of his neighbors’ house like a maniac. Luckily I know these people or I’d be in jail on B&E charges right now.
· Monday through Tuesday: days of reckoning and severe hangover.
· I’m sure I missed many notable events; I will leave it up to T to fill in the blanks, if he so wishes.

The buzz is over, I’m officially hungover and I think I just puked in my mouth. Holy crap, I’m just going to post this. I dropped the ball today, fumbled, the man got me down. I am dried up right now, the only cure is margaritas with Thomas and the nurses around 7. Maybe more later, I have yet to post while wasted, a good idea? Perhaps not, but what else is new?

Haven’t said it in awhile, so here goes.

Alright, I’m done with you.

-Rick

Friday 9PM to 11PM

2004-07-07T15:50:00.000-05:00

The accomplishment of absolute insanity was reached at approximately 9 PM Friday. Certainly, nine o’clock might appear rather early if not for the two o’clock start and the feverous pace that followed. The method: Miller Lite and Jager and Jager Bombs. The gang included the DA, Zman, Thomas and myself, with the Polish Wonder due to arrive momentarily. I’m extra pumped up because the Cubs just beat the Whitesox, it’s barely 9 PM and I’m halfway to camp black out.

Amid unchecked drunkenness, our gang of four has called on its usual fate, in total disarray - the crew splits up, it’s like when Rafael ditches out on the other turtles in the first TMNT movie, I was gone - to an undisclosed location. Fortunately, the DA followed and the location turned out to be rather disclosed. I was at another bar, only a few dorks down from the previous location. I have no recollection of the events that took place inside, but apparently whatever transpired was good enough reason to kick me out. I know this because the DA ran into Thomas outside the new bar, I think Thomas was searching for a lost Unicorn, but somehow he found us. Meanwhile the DA eyes are already glazed over, his hair messed, and it is still before 10 PM. I am nowhere to be seen, but in a somewhat angered haze, the DA says, “See that door? Rick is going to walk out of it in about 5 seconds.”

Sure enough, I appear like a rabbit out of a hat, with one orange-shirted bouncer on each arm. The DA is furious, as usual, for what he believes to be an unjust cause for our exit. I am certain to be babbling about how all bouncers hate me or something having to do with living on a boat. Whatever.

This is turning into one of those nights where I am guaranteed to hurt myself.

The Polish Wonder destined to arrive overdressed in attire that he believes to be ultra hip, like a blazer with jeans or something. Thomas is the most sober, yet pacing himself like dog with its face in a tipped over garbage can.

There are drunk girls everywhere, white-flip-flop wearing drunk girls, blasted and crazy from the day’s baseball game. I categorize this kind of drunk as the kind when, without fail, hysterical crying for no reason occurs at approximately 2 AM, anyway, we are on a path for destruction, drama with bar skanks is not on the flight path. Yet.

By this time Zman has stumbled into our melee, so the crew is nearly complete. I am hoping this is not one of those nights when he gets blacked out he finds obsession with the Silence of the Lambs or basically any movie with cannibalism. Those nights end with me passing out very scared and my bedroom door doesn’t lock. Zman offers me a piggyback ride, I jump on like a cowboy jumping off the rooftop onto his horse, we topple over into the street. One swollen knee for me, part one of Zman’s soon to be black elbow -- Check.

I’m already limping.

Halfway to the next bar, the Polish kid calls, and next thing you know our crew includes one pinstriped blazer. Fan-TAS-tic!

At this point I’m chain smoking and I think I just puked in my mouth.

We arrive at the next bar; the details of our experience there are limited. Zman is approaching Hannibal Lecter grade and it’s not even 11 yet. Polish is sober, but his drinking habits are so inadequate, he will be throwing out hugs like a damn Care bear any minute. Thomas is holding his own and certainly smoking faster than I am. It’s like the lame dance scene in The Breakfast Club, when everyone is dancing around the Library in his own confined style. Across the bar from T and the Polish, Zman and I are talking to some chick, I’m muttering inconsistencies while Zman starts to sweat, but somehow manages to hold it together and maintain the conversation. Thomas and the Polish Wonder appear to be focused on a very deep heart to heart, probably about puppies and kittens. The DA is buying more Jager. It’s 11 o’clock.

11 PM til pass out tomorrow

-Rick

Happy Birthday America!

2004-07-02T14:32:00.000-05:00

As I predict this weekend to provide much material for a blog entry next week, I offer the following After School Special themed potential weekend titles:

Creepy Dudes
Blackouts, Multiple and Domestic
Z-man Jumps Off Something
I am Desperate…for Another Beer
Don’t Buy a Dog When You’re Drunk
The Boy Who Drank Too Much (I think this was actually a real title)
Help…I Can’t Stop Dancing with Fat Chicks
Wrecking Somebody Else’s Apartment is Cooler Than Wrecking Your Own
I Just Wrecked My Apartment
White Flip Flops are Worn Only by Skanks
The $213.00 Bar Tab
Please Tell Me That You are Not Pregnant
Why Some People Sweat More Than Others
I Met Your Mother Only Once
Throwing up IS Cool

I leave this as the preface to an overly hyped weekend.

“This weekend has unlimited upside.”
“Very unlimited.”

-Rick

Excerpt from an email from Thomas

2004-07-02T14:04:00.000-05:00

I was just approached by a co-worker as he asked what I was listening to. I replied, obvs, "The Killers". He then replies "I bet you like stuff like the Flaming Lips, that ska stuff". What? "If Eminem and his crew were on that Woodstock or whatever concert, it would not have been canceled. There weren't any good bands on there."

I have never wanted to throw an empty coffee cup at someone's throat so bad.

I'm a regular kid!

2004-07-01T16:28:00.000-05:00

I assume that few people will be able to empathize with my insanity, but hopefully the following excerpt from a crazy person’s life will entertain:

Last night’s episode included waking up sopping wet in cold sweat, the presumption that I was detained in a cement walled prison cell, followed by the sequence of breaking the screen out of my window and beginning to climb out. I dared not go out the door, as I feared I would be greeted by Marge Schott sporting a Hitler mustache and a Doberman Pincer. (Speaking of evil women with mustaches, the probability that a randomly selected lunch lady from any of the greater 48 states will have facial hair is between 7% and 11%.) Anyway, I finally righted myself, realized that I was nuts, and went back to bed, which I note, was wet enough with sweat to believe that someone just had an “accident.”

This kind of thing happens to me all the time, the other day I thought that a Mexican fiesta was taking place in my bedroom, complete with margaritas and sombreros, since my new amigos weren’t causing any trouble I let Cinco de Mayo continue.

I see visions in my sleep really quite frequently; the insane part is, at least for a moment, I believe that they are real. Just writing about this is starting to concern me, next thing I know, I’ll be bunking next to Scary-Kate, Mike Tyson, and Frankie from the Real World at some mental hospital in the desert, Frankie will be sharing her thoughts about large ocean liners and Tyson will be trying to bite my ear off, meanwhile, I’ll be thinking about making out with Mary-Kate.

I can’t even remember how many times I have forced Thomas to check out my bedroom to make sure that no monsters were hiding in the closet. I also recall an episode when I awoke certain that someone was shining a spotlight in my bedroom window, I flipped off the imaginairy voyeurs and went back to sleep.

One day I am going to wake up and believe that I am riding naked, bareback on a Unicorn, across the plains of Fantasia. I think the majority of my visions are induced by the consumption of minor quantities of alcohol and/or large meals before bed, but the most probable scenario is that I am just weird.

I went nuts!

-Rick

Few things excite me like good taxidermy

2004-06-25T16:10:00.000-05:00

I apologize for my blog negligence of late, my current juncture at work has commanded much of the time and as much as I would rather barf out nonsense all day, somebody’s got to CTC (that’s “Cut the Check”, you can all thank registered crazy person and member of the World Champion Detroit Piston’s Rasheed Wallace for that gem). Speaking of Ol’ Rashweed, last night’s NBA draft was fan-TAS-tic!!! I cannot do justice to the comedy that took place last night at MSG, but if you appreciate the intricacy of athlete personality check out Bill Simmons’ annual draft diary.

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/040625

A few months ago, one of my friends decided that he wasn’t too young to get married. I disagreed, but apparently true love conquers all, except herpes and the Yankees. I have to attend the wedding, which happens to be this Sunday. I truly despise any event that requires a hot church and a suit. Granted, I’ll be as uncomfortable as , but my real concern is that far too many people are getting married at a far too young age. I honestly believe it to be some sort of fad; on the fad hierarchy, getting married has already surpassed slap bracelets and is nipping at the heels of tight rolled jeans and Latin Pop. What’s worse is the spiraling freefall of craziness weddings send girls into; I guess I can’t blame them, if all my friends started getting Ferrari’s and I was still riding the train to work, I’d be pissed too. Whatever.

Instead of grumbling about how foolish I think all these people are, I give you the “to-do list” for my upcoming wedding weekend:

1) Drink free booze, like it’s free booze.

2) Falsify identity whenever possible to as many people as possible.
I want the following interchange to take place regarding conversations with me:
-“Did you meet Rick, the racecar driver?
-“The orthopedic surgeon from Dallas is also a racecar driver?”
-“I thought he was a plumber from Bangor Maine?”

3) Get into a politics argument with “Grandpa”, I don’t care if you agree with him or not, political arguments with old people never get old.

4) Dance with someone that it at least 10 years younger than you and someone at least 10 years older.

5) Have an inappropriately emotional conversation with the mother of the bride/groom.

6) Dress as ridiculous as possible.

7) Over endorse the bride/groom to their new in-laws.

8) Get as wasted as possible, without ruining the reception.

Random stuff from the day:
A bum at lunch told me that George W. should have declared war on all Muslim nations, because then he would be like Eisenhower.

I bought a mounted deer head for 20 bucks from a lady in my office building. Please note: I never have and I never will kill any animal, barring accidental road kill, I just think that this thing is going to look cool sporting a Cubs’ hat over my mantle.

Britney Spear’s career as we know it is about to go careening into the reservoir. Believe the hype.

-Rick

Poor Mary-Kate

2004-06-23T11:00:00.000-05:00

So Scrary-Kate is an Anorexic. Did no one else see her spine obtruding from her back when the she and Trashley hosted SNL a few weeks back? Don’t misconstrue my crassness for lack of compassion, but shouldn’t someone have seen this coming? Look at the facts: Hyper-Millionaire twins unable to escape the pedophilistic spotlight since they hit puberty, an 18th birthday that was a more anticipated event than the first Bud Bowl or the release of Star Wars Episode Whatever, they are about to begin college while consciously maintaining a fortune hefty enough to buy Missouri, for all practical purposes they have never led anything close to a normal life and supposedly Scary is very competitive, while Trashley is obviously cuter. Holy crap, no one saw this coming?

Mary-Kate, I’m there for you, let’s not do this whole college thing, way too much stress for you, I’m thinking you and I get married, you kick this eating disorder thing and we figure out your problems, meanwhile you buy me a beach house with a water slide and a pony.

On a related note, can someone give me a market for the number of Duff sisters that fall of the face of relevance within a year or two? I’m 1.5 bid at 1.7 and bullish; seriously, they are just not cutting it.

I never thought I’d be saying this, but AshLEE Simpson is way more annoying than sister Jessica.

I realize everything I just wrote involved teen pop starlets, am I this shallow? Probably, but this is all I’ve got right now.

-Rick

Robot get me a Pepsi

2004-06-17T15:35:00.000-05:00

I couldn’t be more fried right now; mundane analysis tends to utterly dismember my thought process. My head feels pressured and my vision tunneled; I’m drunk off Microsoft and it’s not a good drunk. It’s the kind of drunk when you stand there swaying and wobbling, not muttering a word, eyes rolled back in your head, not even a burrito can bring you out of this coma. Or worse yet, the kind of drunk when you don’t want to be drunk and you are mentally sober enough to realize it, yet your motor skills do not advise operating any heavy machinery, juggling swords or wrestling with your neighbor’s dog. I’m even kind of nutsy right now; wait why is this stapler in my pocket?

More disconcerting than my limited cognitive ability is the fact that my windowless office is blind of the beautiful day outside.

The bright spot in all this gloom was the unintentionally comedic lunch entertainment, as countless creepy 30-somethings hit on the group of cheerleaders collecting donations near my building. This sight led to the following conclusion: high school cheerleaders must be fantastically intelligent these days; somehow they knew that the best place to draw money from a short skirt is at the heart of the city’s largest conglomeration of disgustingly rich and obnoxious men. I’m enthralled.

For the record, I gave my change to the bum playing the accordion.

Time for happy hour, hopefully I can sober up.

-Rick

retro-post

2004-06-17T07:50:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, 16 June 2004
A fitting end
I recall the scene from “The Color of Money” when Vince tells Fast Eddie, “everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn’t end,” well now I can think of one case when that isn’t true.

Credit the Pistons, yet I have never seen a team, in a win or go home situation, play in such a demoralized manner as the Lakers did last night. Phil Jackson appeared resigned to the outcome, yet at the same time relieved. The dissention, the absence of any glimpse of team play, the complete crumble, you gotta love to hate.

The whole debacle of a series was poignant to watch, the pious Jack Nicholson looking classically asinine, Shaq noticeably disgusted, the dissident Karl Malone, the indifferent Phil Jackson, and the twinkle of a rape trail in Kobe’s eye. What an appropriate ending; the walloping of a supposed dynasty and the imminent decomposition to come. If I’m Phil Jackson I am checking my ass at the door, speeding home to count my money and bang Jerry Buss’ daughter. You can’t help but feel bad for Shaq, 30-foot Superman bed and all, not even Snake Plissken can help him escape from LA.

-Rick

Tuesday, 15 June 2004
Random crap
I wish cigarettes didn’t make me feel like crap, because it is an undeniable fact that smoking makes you look way cooler.

I wonder how old the oldest date at a high school prom was this year.

Now that the Olsen twins are 18, how long will it take for people to turn on them and start griping about how ugly and overrated they are?

Were Dale Jr., Jerry O’Connell and Colin Quinn really the only three males VH1 could dig up for the Maxim Top 100? And was Jerry O’Connell lounging by the public pool at his apartment complex? Fan-TAS-tic. By the way, I’m sitting on the edge of my seat for the release of Kangaroo Jack 2.

Thank you VH1, for finally putting a face, Rachel Perry, to the voice I hear so often; I never imagined a voice over could come from someone so hot.

Seriously, OJ plugging his new show “Juiced” may be the funniest thing I have seen in a very long time.

One thing that I will definitely do before I die is swim with dolphins.

On any given flight, how many people make a purchase from the Sky Mall catalogue? I have been this close to biting the bullet and picking up one of those pillows that gets cold about five times.

Does anyone else drive around their city and play the game: bum or artist?

There is no greater lie than the line: “I don’t normally do this.”

-Rick

Friday, 11 June 2004
Crystal Gravy
Great 90's SNL commercial.

Cue voice over:
"Could you scale a 1000 foot skyscraper?"
"Face a shoot out at high noon?"
"Play hide-and-seek in a haunted swamp?"
"Well we do, on Scream Play."

Could you make a crappy rip off of NBC's already crappy show "Fear Factor"? Apparently E! can.

I just saw a commercial for E!’s new show “Scream Play”, I hate “Fear Factor”, I believe it to be the most preposterous display of human idiocy, yet NBC has a sufficient viewing base to keep it on the air, which means enough mindless drones watch the crap on a weekly basis.

They even found a Joe Rogan rip off to host this piece of garbage, if you didn’t think it was feasible to drum up someone to rip off a huge boner like Rogan, “Scream Play” assures you that it is.

Serve me up a plate of goat penis; this show is destined to ridiculously suck.

Just when you think it’s no longer possible for American programming to stoop any lower, E! has another bowel movement. Congratulations America.

I really don’t know why I even care.

-Rick

The day off work and this is all I can come up with?
As the nation morns the death of our 40th president, I am enjoying a hangover and a diet Coke. I spent my synthetic Friday night, against better judgment, in a crowed “college” bar, shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of assholes who undoubtedly have Belushi posters and lava lamps in their dorm rooms. Granted, there was a plentiful supply of white flip flops and $2 Bud Lights, but I just wasn’t in the mood. I ended up leaving my buddy with some college chicks and I took the train home (alone) to save money. Depressing.

This afternoon I am enjoying one of the perks of working in the financial industry - the unconditional and totally bogus observance of National holidays, but I guess I am ok with the day off.

Relegated to watching VH1’s “40 Greatest Celebrity Feuds”, I can’t help but oppose the crowning of David Lee Roth versus Eddie Van Halen as the greatest celebrity feud of all time. Two washed up egomaniacs battling over who is the “leader” of the band, worse yet is Britney and Durst at number two for their he said she said dispute? These things cause me unprecedented stress, my eye is starting to twitch.

Ever since my buddy moved to LA and tried to feed me the BS that he has always been a Lakers fan, I celebrate every Laker loss like it’s my 7th birthday party at Chuckie Cheese’s, the same birthday party that my friend Timmy crapped his pants of in the ball pit. When Detroit wins this thing, I am sending a dump in a box to his LA bandwagon jumping ass.

Why has America stopped drinking wine coolers? Did Bartles & Jaymes go out with jean shorts and Pearl Jam? I think even my mother has dumped her B & J for a Cosmo in an attempt to be trendy. Man, wine coolers are fruity and delicious! I’m all in for the resurgence of the late 80’s early 90’s trashy American culture era, let’s make this happen, tank tops, t-shirts with graphics of unicorns and white tigers, perms, jean shorts, mullets, Right Said Fred; can NASCAR bridge this gap? God dammit I hope so.

Has anyone else stopped watching Comedy Central all together since they stopped airing SNL reruns? Seriously, SNL was like the free booze that gets you in the door at the Casino, next thing you know you are five free Jack and Cokes deep, down $200 and watching Crank Yankers; MadTV is like having to pay $30 to get into a topless only strip club that doesn’t serve booze, there is no f***ing way I am going in.

The fact remains, Lindsay Lohan’s lack of cleavage in last night’s MTV movie awards was sorely disappointing. Isn’t this what MTV is built upon? Selling hype with hype? In my eye, the ball was dropped.

-Rick

Thursday, 10 June 2004
How to destroy a guy
I am not speaking of the gradual demoralization that results in the loss of a man’s soul by way of pappy public shows of affection and trips to Ikea. These things unfortunately happen to every guy at some point and then it’s guesswork and too many questions. Next thing you know you are being asked how much time is left in the baseball game and who the Opener is, Opener? Nice try. Questions like these usually make me black out. When you come to, you may find yourself carrying a basket of scented crap, radiating a stench so nauseating that you want to puke in someone’s hair or maybe you are forced to go for a walk, which seems tolerable until your pace is interrupted by an unfortunate encounter with a sorority sister and baby, meanwhile you are most intrigued by the cool dog some dude is walking across the street, yet at the same time you are worried that your team is blowing a two run lead in the 9th, but you’ll have to wait because they don’t have TV’s at Ikea. These things ruin a man, an evil as black as cancer that eats away at patience and spirit. Once you are done, you’re done - it’s all over, what’s left is a mid-life crisis and a funeral, the rest is just shopping and tiny blackouts.

What is more relevant to my demographic, those still adolescent and not quite committed to anything, is death by slip-ups in promiscuity. I am referring to the quick and dirty destruction of a guy’s reputation, credibility, and appeal in the eyes of all acquainted parties, resulting from lack of better judgment. (And by acquainted parties I mean her friends and their friends, and probably her friends friends friends too.) This is not a guy’s loss of soul, it is a deflation and deletion of a probability, the chance that she or anyone on her Friendster will ever look your way again. On a side note: Friendster is gay.

So how do the wheels come off the wagon? Typical fish out of water story, radical black cop meets straight-laced white cop and the folly of their awkward yet effective crime fighting relationship ensues, wait, what the hell am I talking about?

Sorry, blacked out for a second.

Here is the short version:
Girl1 and Girl2 work at the same bar, you hooked up with Girl1 a couple of months ago, before Girl2 began working at the bar and before Girl1 and Girl2 ever knew each other. Girl1 and Girl2 are now friends, one day you show up at the bar with Girl2, Girl3 pulls Girl2 aside offers the following information, which I categorize as “none of her f***ing business”:

Girl3: You know he hooked up with Girl1, right?
Girl2: No (offers death stare in your general direction.)

Conversation over, havoc about to ensue. This thing is unrecoverable, like a Tiki Barber fumble, you might as well have punted on first down.

Next thing you know Mormon Julie is peeing on Coral’s bed and you’re blacked out mumbling Carl’s Dalai Lama story from “Caddy Shack”.

Coming clean seems like your best play, el falso. Go ahead, see what happens when you pitch to Barry Bonds with the bases loaded. You run and never look back, you concede the run and worry about pitching to someone else, some other time, at some other bar. If you don’t believe me, throw caution to the wind and confess everything, even let her ask questions, not even Daniel San can win this fight. You just gave up a grand slam.

The kick in the junk is that the asshole makes this play, recovers the fumble, has a threesome with Girl1 and Girl2 in the bathroom and probably finds a hundred dollar bill in his pocket. And in a few weeks when the Yankees finagle their evil paws onto Carlos Beltran and next fall in the imminent Real World – Road Rules Challenge #17, when Coral makes it to the final challenge (again), you will hate the asshole with the fire of 1000 suns, because somehow, they always find a way to win.

The nice guy failed because he started the game a loser and lacked judgment.

Optimism is the mother of anxiety.

The lone solution: an indefinitely long vacation to a new hangout.

She’s done with you.

-Rick

Wednesday, 9 June 2004
Random crap
Is anyone more irrelevant than Steven Dorf? What business does an asshole like Dorf have showing up in a Britney Spears video?

Mandy Moore is rumored to be playing Monica Lewinsky in the upcoming biopic, on an unrelated note regarding a not-hot chick, does anyone remember the Tom Green Show episode when Tom visited the real Monica and she was making crappy handbags or something?

Are you supposed to stay late at work if you take a really long break to dump?

Apparently even the cast of Real World San Diego is into drafting Europeans; seriously, shouldn’t at least Brad know who Darko is? (See Charlie, 18 – Native of Yugoslavia and crazy Frankie’s replacement.)

Is it just me or does Mad Mike from West Coast Customs on Pimp My Ride seem like the most genuine guy in the world?

I am beginning to not be able to tell the difference between Hilary Swank and Steven Cojocaru.

Has there ever been a bigger case of, “My little sister is famous, maybe I should try and be famous too” than with Haley Duff?

I’m presently scared of three things: 1) Being trapped in a room with a smacked out Nicole Ritchie 2) the show Tru Calling getting signed for another season and 3) the Olsen twins in Kiss makeup.

Eminem has to have nailed Jenna Jameson, right? I am like 95% sure of this.

Alright, I’m done with you.

-Rick

Species
Only skanks wear white flip-flops. I feel strongly about this and intend to devote an entire post to the subject.

Nice guys and assholes are coexisting breeds; yet a rare hybrid exists, which is certainly the most advanced of the three. The hybrid species reserves the capacity to selectively choose the appropriate character with respect to the female situation. They can read the defense like a great quarterback and they are never troubled to retreat. I still think those hybrid cars are for pussies though.

The asshole brood is the most limited in intellectual ability, yet their unprecedented success presents somewhat of an anomaly. The asshole’s unrelenting success is largely based on ignorance and indifference; assholes also possess uncanny skill at Golden Tee, repeating Chappelle’s Show lines, and hair gelling.

Nice guys are hopeless, but no matter what, chicks will always be impressed by how much you can drink and how cool you can throw a Frisbee.

On a separate note:
I vacated the doldrums of a gray walled office today, to enjoy my lunch and the pleasant weather. While mowing a delicious burrito, a soft-spoken homeless man approached and quietly asked the following:

“Can any of you hoodlums spare a dime?”

I found this a fantastic example of bum endearment and a great approach to get a dime. Any bum anecdotes will be appreciated and posted.

-Rick

Lost and totally confused
For the past 12 months and pretty much my entire tenure as a girl-chasing adolescent, a parody has developed between expectation, desire, and motivation. Why is it not possible to paint the female species with a symptomatic brush? Without lack of promiscuity, my ventures for relationship have rendered fruitless. Each failed project has added to my cache of neurotic tendencies and furthered my conviction in the theory that if you treat a girl like dirt, she will stick to you like mud.

Cue the nice guy
We bite too easy at the clue of interest. We over analyze, leading to doubt, leading to anxiety. Time after time, discouraged, heartbroken, then bitter. Girls smell these things.

Cue the asshole
We spit at interest, neglect to provide attention, jump when the nice guy falls, yet maintain a state of total indifference and rampant success.

Is the nice guy a pre-evolved species of the asshole or just too predictable – the prototype of failure?

How is it possible to separate or suppress true feelings from indifference? I don’t want to be the asshole - but survival is contingent upon role.

Maybe I just need a better haircut.

-Rick

Tuesday, 8 June 2004
And my name’s Rick man…so what?!?
Is it so preposterous to consider that most any reasonably creative mind is possible of fabricating a celebrity lifestyle through a series of ambiguous blog entries? Am I the only person who strongly feels that this Rance is a hoax? And how does an asshole like Rance gain so much media attention? I guess I’m a celebrity too then man.

All right, I’m done with you.

Here’s an idea for a reality TV show: call it Drunk Dudes, the 3 AM Burrito Challenge, Who Wants to be Morally Flexible? or Puke, Fall and Hurt Yourself.

Who wouldn’t watch drunk people doing drunk things? Can’t a bogus network like SpikeTV or PAX pick this up? Granted MTV has degraded the value of The Real World, Road Rules, The Real World – Road Rules Challenge, Inferno, Gauntlet, Who’s Most Afraid of Coral, Battle for the Maroon Saturn, etc. etc., to the simple equation of crazy people + booze + yelling = Veronica topless and David B never making it out of round one, but let’s switch it up, get a bunch of ostensibly ordinary people totally wasted and roll camera, high comedy in my book.

The rub obviously comes with finding a cast of un-crazy people that are willing to ruin their careers, dump their families, and give up any speck of credibility, but the bright side is that as the newfound crop of Reality Stars, this cast of seven strangers can inappropriately show up at movie premiers, find themselves playing minor characters in B-list soaps and land jobs for one second shots in Right Guard commercials. The beautiful symphony of Reality TV.

-Rick

Monday, 7 June 2004
Clarity for T
To clarify and relieve T of any sub abuse flack, my comments regarding Tylenol’s non-habit-forming-non-painkiller known as “Simply Sleep” are predicated upon envy of his normalness and exemption from the land of psychosomatics.

-Rick

Monday, 7 June 2004
The tribulations of a hangover
I spent last night not unlike most other Sunday nights, in an unrelenting restless state. Mostly drunk and totally hungover from the three previous nights’ escapades, I always find it rather anomalistic that a hangover can maintain a state of inebriation. These are the nights that I wish my roommate had permitted me to buy a puppy or that I was cool enough to have a girlfriend; if qualified feel free to apply.

Yesterday rendered complete though. I discovered a delightful new bar not far from my apartment, my baseball team survived another day, I even met the actor who played “Ogre” in the Revenge of the Nerds films, Don Gibb, who I feared would enjoy picking me up by my ankles and shaking the money out of my pockets. A fulfilling day that ended in the always predictable sleepless disaster.

My roommate, who I shall refer to from this point forward as Thomas or T, continued his somewhat disturbing habit, of which I am extremely envious, of abusing (only because I am jealous) the Tylenol sleep aid pills. The distinction between our reactions to these over the counter miracles is that while these pills provide a delicious one way ticket to happy land for him, they send me into a spiraling world of mind madness and insomnia. I am forever green of those who can avoid the reverse reactions to handy over the counter meds.

Work is devastating today, not only did I catch a reaming as the result of a simple miss communication, but it is hotter than blazes in here and my breath stinks. More betterness later, hopefully I am less sober.

-Rick

Breaking up with Tripod

2004-06-17T07:45:00.000-05:00

The Tripod blog builder was not cutting it, so it's over and done with between us. I will post all of my Tripod entries as one large retro-post.

-Rick