Posts Tagged ‘life humor’

Freaky looking dudes on whom I have crushes

Friday, October 16th, 2009

For those of you out there who aren’t exactly George Clooney, have no fear. There are women who don’t care all that much about that kind of stuff. And I happen to be one of them. Thus, I assume that extrapolating my opinions and making a blanket statement like that is true. Hopefully, for your sake – if you do happen to be a freaky looking dude – it is.

I have had more than one boyfriend refer to us as “Beauty and the Beast” and although, in my recollection, it was not that severe, I am of the belief that who a person is is a hell of a lot more than the package he/she/I comes in. Admittedly, I take pretty good care of my package, but at the end of the day, I strive to have the sum far outweigh the parts.

True, I have a crush on George Clooney – and it is to a large degree because of his looks. However, it’s mostly because he seems to have a good sense of humor and to be, minus the womanizing, a cool guy. Actually, the womanizing would scare the crap out of me in real life, but I don’t know him and this is not ‘real life’ so it’s a moot point.

I can't quite fathom the logic that says "I would rather wear this ratty thing on my head than be bald."

I can't quite fathom the logic that says "I would rather wear this ratty thing on my head than be bald."

Anywho, the inspiration for today’s pointless rambling is that I ran across some article criticizing the latest gorgeous girl dating Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows, and despite the fact that he basically looks like a pudgy, middle aged Jewish guy (especially when you factor in the reality that his hair is a piece. He’s bald, which I personally think would be preferable to the horrific Sideshow Bob wig he prefers…) Nevertheless, I totally get it.

No, he ain’t no beauty queen, but since when does that last anyway? We all get older, and if that’s all you had going for you…then good freaking luck, boring unfunny person with nobody to dance with at the nursing home prom.

On the bright side, it’s never too late!

Go read some books and get a hobby and work on developing a personality tout de suite! Maybe something involving cooking or learning to fix broken toilets?

Back to Adam, the other reality is that he is responsible for what is probably my most favorite song of all time, and that goes a long damn way in my way book.

This is (obviously) not an official video, but it’s by far the least offensive out there. Jose, you can tell us if it’s been translated appropriately.

The worst award went to a young woman with a ton of large piercings and pretty much a close up on her face the whole time.

Not so much.

robinson_sandison500_18241tMoving on, in the next corner we have another musician, The Black Crowes’ Chris Robinson. He’s seen better days – and the business end of a bong a few too many hundred thousand times – but he’s still incredibly cool and such an amazing performer. I’ve had the great good luck to see them live three or four times…and each time my crush is intensified. I think it  has something to do with the way he moves.

And of course his voice.

And the fact that they pretty much never chatter, just jam.

I don’t know what he’d look like under that Chewbacca beard – and it probably ain’t pretty – but the kid he had with Kate Hudson is cute enough, so you never know? Actually, if you go back to the early days of the Crowes, you can catch a glimpse of a young, beardless Chris…but the camera never really pans in and focuses, and there was probably a good reason for that.

I’d also like to make a quick note of gratitude that he’s no longer dressing like a fancy pirate. Good move, Chris.

I love this song. The first time I ever heard it was in Liverpool, played for me by a man who said it reminded him of me.

I can’t argue with the talking to angels part (although I think of them more as guides and had said no such thing to him in that regard), and I certainly am not above telling you I’m an orphan even if you’ve already met my mother. It’s all relative…   (No pun intended.)  On the other hand, I’ve never shot up or whatever sad issue the subject of this tune seems to struggle with. Thankfully.

53179177XX036_Comedy_CentraIn conclusion, rounding out my trifecta of freaky looking dudes on whom I have crushes, is Dave Attell. Dave used to have this show called “Dave Attell Insomniac” where he would stay up all night (duh) and hang out with people who had night shift jobs and crack jokes and generally be spontaneously hilarious.

I couldn’t find a YouTube clip of the time he hung out in a waste treatment plant in Boston, so you’ll have to settle for some standup, posted below.

And in other news…

Hmmmmm….

Is it me, or do these guys all bear a strange resemblance to one another? Like they’re all cousins or something? Or members of the same synagogue?

I think it’s a coincidence, but just to be sure, I may go ahead and end this now and find a so-so looking blond guy to crush on. Suggestions welcome.

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Bad zoos

Sunday, June 21st, 2009

 

Is there anything worse than bad zoos?

 

 

Does anyone else see a resemblance to Larry King or is it just me?

Does anyone else see a resemblance to Larry King or is it just me?

Okay maybe intensive care units. And puppy mills. And concentration camps. And Indian gaming casinos in the middle of the day. And waking up naked with Howard Stern.

 

But I digress…  The point here is that bad zoos are sad. 

You know the ones: The cages are too small, the animals are pacing in an insane asylum ‘I am totally losing my marbles’ kind of way, and there’s a peculiar odor not unlike your average gas station bathroom.

Case in point: In my mid-teens, I lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico and the zoo there had a polar bear. In the desert. And basically it had a swimming pool (painted a cheery pale blue, no doubt to remind him of the glaciers of home) and a small ledge and maybe a broken down plastic lounge chair.

Think of your average cheap motel pool and you’re there.

Anyway, this poor polar bear was OUT IN THE OPEN. There was no fancy air-conditioned, temperature controlled enclosure. The water was a funky color (despite the pale blue), and – worst of all –  this poor animal was completely exposed to the elements.

Let’s call him Doomed.

 

 

Oh yeah. THAT occurs in the wild.

Oh yeah. THAT occurs in the wild.

So Doomed had basically acquired what I have come to believe is a polar bear sun tan. Due to his 24/7 exposure to the totally wrong (and much, much, MUCH warmer and sunnier climate) he had turned a bright orange yellow. Kind of – and forgive me for the graphic nature of this description – like when you’re somewhat dehydrated and relieve yourself of the paltry three tablespoons of liquid stored in your bladder. The dark yellow color in the bowl before you? That would be Doomed’s furry northern and now Malibu tan coat.

 

So that was then.

Perhaps things are better these days in Albuquerque? 

Perhaps the zoo has been shut down (one can hope) and Doomed transferred? Perhaps he has passed on to the glacier in the sky? Perhaps things have gotten worse, and he’s now part of an unspeakable adult entertainment act in Jaurez, Mexico? Let’s hope not.

Regardless, today, right now operating in Hershey, Pennsylvania is a super sad/bad zoo called Zoo America.

And in a way, perhaps it is a fair reflection on America.

The animals are molting and haggard and strangely ‘off’, their cages are too small, and there’s a haphazard grouping as to why they’re all even there. I suppose because each of them exist in the wild somewhere in America, which would (in hindsight) explain the lack of giraffes and lions.

 

Awwwwww! Too bad they don't come in pet size! Or pet temperament, anyway...

Awwwwww! Too bad they don't come in pet size! Or pet temperament, anyway...

 

 

Anywho, visiting Zoo America is one of those things that seems like a good idea (particularly when you discover it’s included with the price of admission to HersheyPark and you just realized that you’re a wee bit too old to want to be thrown around on the precarious rails of an ancient wooden structure while barely secured in a tiny cart and feeling your breakfast rise into your throat as you drop at 120mph. Speaking of which, I hung out with some friends a few days after my HersheyPark trip, and almost immediately and to my amusement, our conversation became an impassioned rehashing of ‘ways HersheyPark almost maimed my sorry-ass 30-something body.’ Everyone had a particular ride they recalled with a grimace as the memory of the associated pain, whiplash, pulled muscle, or slipped disk came rushing back.)

But I digress again…

It seemed like a good idea. Until I saw a cruel and unusual zoo situation.

It was so remarkable that I jotted a small note to myself while within Zoo America to remind me to one day write a blog on the singular inhumanity (or inanimalamity) of the following:

At Zoo America they have a Martin Weasel living next door to a Lynx.

 

I want one! I wouldn't want to find a wild one in my basement or garage or anything...but I want one!!!

I want one! I wouldn't want to find a wild one in my basement or garage or anything...but I want one!!!

 

 

Predator and prey, separated by some chicken wire.

Just so you have the correct visual, imagine the Martin Weasel, sensing the presence of a fatal predator three feet away, runs around in a frenzied panic all day long, while the Lynx looks on hungrily. Sick, sick stuff Zoo America, and I do not approve.

Essentially, this is the equivalent of putting me in a cage next to Hannibal Lecter and allowing him to stare and whisper at me all day long while convincing me to confess that I still hear the screaming of the lambs.

I’d run around nervously too. And maybe develop Tourette’s or something.

Bad zoos suck.

 

And that’s all I got.

For today.

Bad zoos make me sad. Sad songs say so much. One thing that doesn’t say so much? Mimes.

And that’s something for which we can all be grateful.

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Yawn!

Sunday, May 3rd, 2009

I’m tired.

And drained.

And ready for bed at 8pm, except The Simpsons are on and then The Celebrity Apprentice, and I will no doubt stay up to watch. (Side note: Second wind is upon me, and I’m surprised to note that Donald Trump Jr. seems to be evolving his own [heinously ugly] hairdo. I thought baldness and unfortunate thinning were inherited from the mother, but apparently in Trumps it descends directly through the male genes. Or maybe it’s just a matter of bad taste? The world may never know…)

Huh?

Is it me, or is this filled with icky, boiling blood?

Anyway, as it happens, I’m no longer the spring chicken I once was.

Actually, I’m not even sure I ever had a heyday as such…but I’m most definitely not in the midst of one right now.

Today was the 12k race, and from the get-go it was off to an inauspicious start. To begin, I didn’t get home from my trip until almost midnight.

Then, I slept like crap. I have this weird thing where sometimes I’ll sweat like I’ve got autonomic dysreflexia, post-traumatic syringomyelia, autonomic neuropathy, and a bunch of other stuff WebMD said can be the cause of night sweats that don’t sound like good things to have and hopefully aren’t the reason this happens to me every few months.

Actually, I once recorded the sweats for a solid year, and took all the dates in to my doctor (who probably thinks I’m nuts, although not quite nuts enough to have me committed against my will), and he pondered them for a few seconds Then he declared that the dates were too random to be a symptom of tuberculosis, but if they pick up in frequency, to let him know. Case closed.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I sweat it up and soak the sheets and it’s super gross and always leads to a crappy night’s sleep, partly because I wake up freezing, and partly because I have to get my freezing body out of bed and find new blankets and, in this case, crack open a window.

So that happened, and then it’s up at 6:45am and off to the races. It was cold and they called for rain all day, so I dressed more warmly than I have in past years. Then, I waited in a 45 minute line to use a disgusting portable potty which was probably riddled with tuberculosis and god knows what else, and then, the next thing I know, I’m off and running.

So the goal was to run the entire thing in less than an hour. Which meant 8 minute miles (or less). Which immediately did not happen. Mile one – 8:20. Mile two: 8:37 and so on, until I drug back down to my usual 9:00 or 9:15 minute by the seventh mile.

I was in sorry shape.

You wouldn’t have even thought I trained, which I did. Sort of. Admittedly, I only started said ‘training’ two weeks ago, and I probably didn’t kick my own @ss as much as I should have, but the  point remains: It didn’t work. And I refuse to blame my own lack of initiative and effort. I blame advancing age.

And the fact that I was wearing a polar fleece jacket, which had my race number attached to it, so I couldn’t take it off. Rather than pouring rain, the sun came out and it actually got quite hot. All in all, I was happy about this, but it didn’t do much to increase my need for speed.

Ouch and double-ouch. At least I wasn't in bare feet.

Ouch and double-ouch. At least I wasn't in bare feet.

Then there was the ankle timer.

They make you wear this timing chip on a Velcro strap wrapped around your leg, and the thing had dug four holes into my ankle by the second mile. Then my leg started to feel all crazy and painful, and I got paranoid that I was running on a stress fracture or having some kind of random – but serious – problem.  In the end, I think I had the strap on too tight, but ultimately I stopped and attached the ankle timer to my shoelaces…and problem solved.

And two minutes lost.

So there you have it, mission not accomplished.

I got through the race, just not (remotely) as fast as I’d hoped.

In conclusion, and not to dwell on a topic that I am personally quite sick of and have come to believe is more hype than reality, if there is rampant swine flu epidemic out there, I’m probably in some serious trouble. Today during the race, no less than 50 people spit within three feet of me. And I”m sure I stepped in at least a quarter cup of human gunk of some kind or another during the 7 1/2 mile course.

That guy needed one of these.

That guy needed one of these.

But the worst of all?

And I swear I am not making this up.

At the end of the race, in the middle of downtown, right after the place where you pick up your ‘thanks for playing’ t-shirt, I saw a man – a mere four or five feet in front of me – plug his nostril and fire a giant wad of snot out of the other one. And then he plugged the other nostril and did it again!

In public!

Where people could see him!

Oh, the humanity.

At the same time, let me give you my solemn promise:  I will never, ever unload a noseful of snot onto the ground in public. And if I absolutely must do so for some unknown reason that obviously involves a complete and total lack of paper products, I promise to ask you to look the other way and plug your ears first.

Cross my heart and hope to die.

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Sleep habits of the disenchanted

Thursday, November 20th, 2008

So when I first got home from Turkey, I was widly jet-lagged and fighting to stay awake at 2pm.

Now the pendulum has swung dramatically the other way. I’m going to bed at 2am and rising at the equivalent of 7pm Istanbul time. What a difference three weeks makes.

Stepping back and looking at the situation objectively, I think I’m suffering the effects of no job, no schedule, and no real responsibilities. It’s fun for a few weeks, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head that would like to see me get my @ss in gear and develop a plan for managing my time.

Part of the problem is that I can dick around like nobody’s business. If there were a “who can waste the most time surfing the internet” competition, I could very possibly take home of the gold. Ditto for channel surfing, magazine flipping through, phone chatting, book skimming, and dog tug of warring. Alas, this is not how best selling novels are created (at least I doubt it), so starting next week I am developing a time management schedule and sticking to it! And calling all the people I need to call! And writing back to all the people I need to write! And commencing my plan for world domination!

To quote the famous time management expert Alan Lakein, “Time = life; therefore, waste your time and waste of your life, or master your time and master your life.”   Amen to that.

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My goodness, my Guinness

Tuesday, August 19th, 2008

I imagine tourists have always been a hazard: Looking up when they should be looking for traffic, stopping suddenly when they spot a souvenir shop, clustering together in large, slow-moving groups. All of this was enough. But give a tourist a phone and the ability to text message their friends back home while walking slowly and ambling into traffic…and they’re practically a deadly weapon. Who knows? Maybe I’d be just as obnoxious if I still had my Blackberry. But I don’t. And I can’t figure out how to work my “fun phone”, so I guess that makes me neither part of the problem, nor part of the solution!

There is a peculiar thing in our society of wanting to go somewhere different, but not really want anything to change: not the food, not the language, not even our habits. I was at a hostel here in Ireland a few days ago where a guy from New Zealand spent all day, every day in the common room working on his laptop. When I stopped in and started looking around for an electrical outlet, he pointed out every single one in the room. Kind of makes you wonder why he bothered to leave New Zealand, where it might have been cheaper, easier, and even more scenic to surf the web all day?

As for me, I don’t need things to stay the same, but it turns out I’m not all that interested in shelling out pound after pound (now euro after euro) to see faux entertainment drummed up for the tourists. Case in point, my visit to the Guinness Storehouse. I don’t have any hard facts on this, but I would guess it’s the number one tourist attraction here in Dublin. I can’t imagine what would beat it. Anyway, I’m not sure why I was gung ho to do this. I know how beer is brewed. In fact, super thick dark beer is the easiest kind to make! I would know, I made some as part of a class (earned chemistry credit for it, in fact) in college. Overly sweet wine is pretty easy, too.

Anyway, now I know how Guinness is made (roasted barley and the water does NOT come from the River Liffey, which is good news because that water looks pretty dubious. The guide had to answer this question TWICE, by the way (?) ), and I got my free pint at the Gravity Bar. Although I suppose it was semi-interesting and the view from the bar was nice in a gray, cloudy, rain-soaked kind of way, I couldn’t help but thinking that for the price of admission, I could have had five pints of Guinness and needed someone to carry me home. Maybe next time?

If nothing else, it was kind of amusing to see all the people coming out with giant shopping bags branded “Guinness.” At any given point, it seemed like a third of the town was carrying one of those bags. One is left wondering if Guinness might make more money off merchandise than they do beer here in Dublin? Sadly, I have not room in my backpack to load up on Guinness t-shirts, magnets, bottle openers, signs, posters, plaques, sweatshirts, and glassware. However, and again I don’t have any hard facts, but I bet they’ve got a web site where I can order up memorabilia to my heart’s content once I get home! Now I have a way to get the matching Guinness leather jacket, pants, and baseball hat combo I was eyeballing!

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