Archive for August, 2006

My apartment building, 4:30pm:

I’m in the elevator headed to the lobby. The elevator stops on the 23rd floor. I hear a woman say good-bye and a man say, “See you tonight,” as he rushes onto the elevator smelling of latex and baby oil. He says hello and I say the same.

We get to the lobby. The man exits the elevator and tells the doorman, “Hey, I’ve got a six-person limo coming pretty soon, but I’m gonna run across the street for a minute and have a beer. Can you just tell it to wait till I get back?”

Hey, buddy. Can we trade lives for a few hours?

Man, 2004 was great! My stomach was flat, my hair was pink, and I had the white man by the balls.

It’s funny what odd memories a nearly fatal hard drive crash can conjure up.

So Good: Every morning, I get up and run on a treadmill. It’s not always fun, and sometimes it’s downright painful. But this morning was a little different, thanks to OK Go’s free-spirited romp on six treadmills in their music video Here It Goes Again. Glad someone’s having a good time!

No Good: The memorable song, Happy Happy Joy Joy, made famous by one of my favorite cartoons, Ren and Stimpy, is now being immortalized in a Sarah Lee commercial. The company probably turned to the one person in their advertising department under 30 and said, “Hey, we need something quirky and catchy that will appeal to our younger audience…” and this is what that lazy bitch pulled out of her ass at the 11th hour. A bunch of people eating food to the soundtrack of a cartoon that features boogers and hairballs. Will my generation ever end its love affair with irony?

I arrived at my new apartment early last week only to find no movers and no countertops.

Oh well, gotta work anyway.

I called into my meeting and took a picture of the view from my window.

Then I looked down.

Okay, enough of that. Let’s go to the roof.

Maybe I should unpack all my crap now. Good luck, me.

By the way, that’s pretty much “the tour.” But we have some nice closets and a bathroom too. Some of Gus’s searches for a sublet have shown us that those are a luxury here.

Going to the Bronx Zoo is a lot harder than it looks. We had a nice lunch in Hoboken and tried to go there. As an aside, I took a picture of the coolest thing about Hoboken (the view of Manhattan).

Just kidding. Hoboken is nice. It was clean, the food was good, the people seemed friendly enough… but I wouldn’t be a New Yorker if I didn’t make fun of New Jersey just a little bit.

Anyway, we went to the zoo. It took forever for us to get to the zoo parking lot and when we finally did, it was full. The attendants did nothing to inform patrons of where to find spillover parking, so we drove on through like the rest of the cattle. We ended up parking on the street and walking to the zoo, which involved passing through some of the burrough and crossing a big highway.

“The joke’s on us, this is the zoo!” Kristi befittingly exclaimed.

When we were almost there, I saw this advertisement.

Because you won’t let us park! That’s why not today!

By now, it was almost 3pm. Kristi said, “Come on! We only have two hours left!”

And I said, “I’m taking pictures of signs! We’re finally here!”

The grafito means it’s authentic.

So… admission to the Bronx Zoo is $12 per person. After driving, and then walking, for hours, we didn’t think that was fair. Robert explained the gate attendant the trouble we ran into and asked if we could get half-price admission or some sort of compensation for our trouble. The boorish attendant said he wasn’t authorized to give us anything. Ha! Like we’re going to stop there. After some more discussion, the attendant put Robert on the phone with someone who could help us.

Haggle, Robert, haggle.

Robert told that punk what happened, and she said she couldn’t give us half-price admission, only complimentary admission. Hey, that’s better than half-price! We’ll take it. Robert was totally on his game that day, and seriously the most professional I’ve seen a person behave while wearing a Domo-kun t-shirt.

We went through the gates.

Then we looked at some pretty cocks.

Peacocks, stupid! Get yer mind outta the gutter!

I also saw some camels. You can ride the camels at this zoo, but you don’t go anywhere and the line is long. I’ll save up my camel-riding mojo for my next and only trip to Africa.

I tried to take pictures of monkeys, but they were too far away. This one got really close to the glass, but all I caught… was his ass…

And this other monkey is grasping his cage like, “Get me the hell outta here.”

He had my utmost sympathy because I wanted to leave too. Even if we’d had enough time, I wouldn’t have gotten 12 dollars’ worth of zoo enjoyment at this place. It was boring and there were no elephants. I like Brookfield in Chicago and the Audubon in New Orleans much better.

Fuck the Bronx, and fuck the zoo. I know J.Lo would not approve!

I just don’t let up, do I? This one looks like you could grab it by the tail and club someone over the head with it. Magnificence engulfs me!

This saw this poster at the post office today.

This is fucking absurd. I’m going to create memories with mail, rather than simply retell them to the letter’s recipient in a typically subjective, poorly narrated fashion? And I’m going to do it with stamps no less?

And when we do this, America, let’s use the Stop Family Violence stamp, especially when sending greeting cards to our elders. Let’s use a government-subsidized entity that exists only for marketing whores and old people too scared of the internet to show our stance on family violence. And since creating memories with something as banal as a stamp on a letter is a stretch for many of us, let’s just look back on some memories.

“Dear Dad, Happy Birthday! Remember that time you beat the fuck out of me with a lead pipe and threw me down the stairs? That didn’t feel so good and I think you should stop. Love, Me.”

And the Stop Family Violence stamp shows I mean it.

Some of you are starting to worry now, but you probably aren’t half as worried as the line full of people at the post office who saw me take a picture of a stupid poster.

Another completely retarded thing I saw today was a 40-something-year-old Central American lady wearing a t-shirt that said, “Boy Inspector.”

Boy inspection at your age is against the law here, lady. If you have sons, they’re probably stocking up on Stop Family Violence stamps right now.

Foxwoods Casino Poker Room, 6:00pm:

Cards are dealt for a $2/4 Limit Texas Hold’Em game.

Dealer: Where do you live?

Me: New York City

Dealer: A lot of people get robbed in New York.

Several people call, and I check my unconnected, unsuited, paintless garbage of a hand. I think it was 79o. The flop is equally unimpressive. I have middle pair.

Man 1: Yeah, I know this guy, he left New York in tears. Lost a thousand bucks.

Me: He got hustled or mugged?

Man 2: Heh, same thing.

Man 2 bets. I call, and everyone folds. Fourth street is a face card. Wonderful. Bluffing in limit poker is stupid, since most people will see down their hand if it’s halfway decent. I also assumed that at worst, the guy had bet with over cards, especially with this table being so weak. Either that or he had a pair. We both check. Okay.

Man 1: He got hustled. You know those guys on the street, they challenge you to a game, you bet, they let you win a few times, and then you’re ready to risk it all because you’re so sure you’ll win and then they rip it out from under ya.

Dealer: Yep, a lot of people get robbed in New York.

Me: Ha, a lot of people get robbed here.

The river doesn’t help me, but it didn’t help him either. He checks, so I bet.

Man 2: Yeah, every day in this casino.

Me: In fact, I think it’s happening right now… at this table.

Man 2: Sure is.

Me: To me, I mean.

To my surprise, he shows me a small pair. I reveal my crap hand making a slightly higher pair.

Man 2: Bah! I didn’t just get robbed. I got raped!

Me: Oh now, that’s just wishful thinking on your part, sir.

Bondage is sexy…

But proper grammar usage is sexier.

Let’s check our double entendres before clogging our friends’ comments pages with them, okay?

A black guy, a mexican guy, and a white girl walk into bar…

And when you’re in Southeast Colorado, that’s the whole joke.

Luckily, we flew into Colorado Springs, which has evidence of some (albeit conservative) civilization. While passing through town a couple of times for work, we got to see and do some interesting things, like check out Garden of the Gods.