Things I'm Into

Having a transient, disparate, make-believe entourage. At the present moment I roll with Mos Def, Shia LeBouf, Michael Cera and Demitri Martin. I was recently - earlier today in fact -extremely disappointed to discover that it's at least somewhat cliche for white people to have an affinity for Mos Def (see reason #69). I remain undaunted, if not un-cliche, because he's staying in my posse, at least for the time being. How could anyone not like a guy this multi-talented? His rap is so good that I'd almost consider listening to it on my own time, AND he's an amazing character actor. Ever see that flick where he plays Robyn to Bruce Willis' jaded aging cop Batman? 16 Blocks I think it was called? His shining achievement to date, however, is his portrayal of Vivien Thomas in Something the Lord Made; a seriously great movie that you should consider seeing. I remember Shia from his days on Nickelodeon. A younger sibling of mine was a huge fan of Even Stevens and I wanted to kill Shia LeBouf. Seriously. It's likely the juxtaposition of my early conception coupled with his performance in decidedly pedestrian Suburbia that combine to make him a must have. Plus, a pal of mine said he'd read somewhere that he's Hollywood's new Tom Hanks. Michael Cera was in Arrested Development, Superbad, and Juno. He's not necessarily diverse in his acting repertoire but his mannerisms, delivery, and apparent intelligence remind me a lot of my college buddy Emmett. Demetri Martin was the most recent addition. There's just something to be said for a kid that grew up on Jersey, went to Yale, then on to NYU Law School, on full scholarship, only to drop out in his final year to pursue a career in comedy. I knew we'd be the best of friends when I first saw his Hummer schtick (commences 37 seconds in). He's also written for Conan O'Brien and contributed to The Daily Show.


Letting my hair grow until it looks ridiculous, and then, instead of paying for a haircut, giving myself one. This has been my thing since middle school. I was on the wagon, so to speak, for much of college, but have since fallen off. For example, at present I couldn't tell you when I got my last haircut, but it's safe to say the next one isn't far off. By necessity.

Firmly entrenched in all that HBO had to offer, I never heeded the advice of close friends and co-workers that vehemently recommended Lost. Having cancelled my HBO subscription after the last season of Curb Your Enthusiasm to help subsidize wireless internet, I recently succumbed to what was once a benign inclination. And now I am balls deep in it. Not that the show is without flaw. To the contrary, I think some of the dialogue is awkward, cliche, and contrived. But the show's premise, its cast, and its mode of revelation have taken a hold of me. Moose and I are in the middle of season 1 and loving every minute of it.


Clementines. I love when they're first in season and I end up with that magical batch of clementines that I end up consuming 3 to 5 at a time. And later, I lament when they're going out of season and I end up with consecutive batches of dry, tasteless crap.


Commas. I vividly remember my teachers throughout my academic career marking up my work in red ink for what they deemed an excessive use of commas. What can I say? I love them. I love brief pauses. I even love the way they look.


Being Irish. Always have been. In fourth grade, when faced with the daunting task of making a panorama that reflected what I wanted to be as an adult, I was an Irish rugby player living in Ireland. I know, lame, but gimme a break, I was in fourth grade. This pride has actually been tempered to a degree by living in Boston where, in certain circles, being Irish means being a xenophobic bigot.


Disagreeing with people. Surely counterproductive in ways I don't yet fully understand, I've always jumped at the opportunity to disagree with people. This is actually one of the few parts of my profile I took seriously. I don't even know what else to say about it. Keep in mind, however, that if you say something about it, I'll probably say the opposite.


Music that is actually difficult to like. Though I've pontificated the subject before, I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention it.


Making noise: Composing and singing nonsensical songs, singing actual songs, singing songs from childhood, honing various impersonations, and making ridiculous noises that are inextricably without purpose or meaning. Just ask Moose. Some days I am sure I drive her to the brink of madness. Sad to say that it doesn't even particularly matter if anyone is around to hear me. My brother has the same disease actually. When together, we'll get into a zone where our antics are so obscenely over the top that we are undoubtedly the most annoying duo in the entire world. If we are together for too long, I start to annoy myself.


The End.

Comments' Comments

On occasion someone will give me a hard time for not responding to intermittent comments from readers.  As I've never done this before, and, as it seems to work for Bill Simmons, below are my comments to the last few comments posted in response to various blog entries:  

In response to "Shame" Ryan from New Jersey said...
Aren't we all friends here? What's with the aliases? You act as if you guys killed someone that night. Oh my god - did you?
PS. - you are a huge meat ball.
PSS. - I'm sure you won't post this just like you never post my responses.
PSSS. - turf toe=turf blow.

Ryan, by "here" do you mean the internet? Because everyone short of the homeless has internet access.  And as some of the players in "Shame" happen to hold public offices -one of them is actually running for president (vote Huckabee!)- I think I owe it to them not to reveal their identities on the world wide web, especially when recounting how one of them was so drunk he felt compelled to pull his dick out for no reason, mid-conversation.  That'd be a real campaign killer.       

I am a huge meat ball.  No argument there.

I always post your responses. The only reason I gave myself the power to reject comments on this blog before they're posted is because certain individuals, who again shall remain nameless, were overly critical, to put it lightly, of my dad and his Led Zeppelin criticism that he posted as a guest writer. He's a sensitive guy. And the apple never falls far... :(

In college, a buddy and I were challenged to a game of two on two football in what was billed as a clash between "Skinnies" and "Fats".  My team, the Fats, was comprised of myself and a friend of ours who was also played football in high school.  Our opponents, the Skinnies, was comprised of two of my skinny roommates that smoked weed and got stuffed in lockers in high school.  For them this was a shot at redemption.  For us, the game began as a vehicle for comedy that later became a source of stress.  What if we ended up losing?  It worked out in the end as the Fats prevailed, though the Skinnies would likely argue the fact to this very day.  A day later, when I arrived home from class, I found my the walls of my room covered in pieces of paper prominently displaying taunts.  "Skinnies Rule Fats Drool!" read one.  "Turf Toe = Turf Blow" read another.  To be honest I forget the rest but we I remember most, if not all of them, were hilarious.   The whole thing was a kind of satirical play on our former high school selves.  At least that's how I saw it.    

In response to "OK, Last One for Real" Joe Whelan, from somewhere in Giants' country, wrote...

Not sure who you are or how you 'took a punch for me' but I think you have me confused with someone else. That's not me in your you tube video in Germany. Sorry bud! Thanks for posting my story on your blog though.

Joe Whelan, see the picture of me in the upper right?  That's me.  You don't remember me from college??  I thought I'd told the story clearly.  Upon further review, I can see how Joe Whelan mistook my referring to "Joey", who is the star of the YouTube clip, is a buddy of mine, and whom I did take a punch for, for a reference to him.  I had a brief verbal altercation with Joe Whelan in the immediate aftermath of having been punched in the face for trying to break up a one sided fight.  Is Joe Whelan trying patronizing me?  It's difficult to tell for sure.  I'll give him the benefit of the doubt because his story is absolutely amazing.  Not to mention our sole interaction was fueled by alcohol.      

Mr. Tallent, of South Boston, said in response to "Music Videos I've Been Obsessed With Over the Past 15 Years Or So"...

The November Rain video is great. The best part is when it starts raining at that wedding and the guy jumps right through the wedding cake. HAHAHAHA It was only rain there was no need to jump through the wedding cake.

I think it's safe to say that anyone who has ever seen this video would wholeheartedly agree, though perhaps they have never really thought about it before.  That part of the video makes absolutely no sense.  Something that nonsensical?  Definitely Axl Rose's creative input.  

My cousin Kate, of Tennessee, said in response to my Giant Superbowl gloating:

I am jealous that you live in a city that is so erroneously arrogant about their sports franchises that when the Giants single handedly thwarted the Pat’s perfect season people actually noticed.

I did my fair share of lamenting the fact that I spent Superbowl Sunday in Boston with Patriot fans.  Kate's sentiments actually opened my eyes.  The worst thing for sports' fan isn't a rivalry, it's ambivalence.  Also, I'm glad Kate found her way to my crappy blog.  I just hope that she doesn't think less of me after having had a romp through the mind of this moron.  

Anonymous, from somewhere, in response to the picture of Rycree that accompanied "Superbowl Diction" said... 

oc-o (original comb-over) said... glad to see the Creeman has embraced the comb-over

I'm not so sure he's embraced it, so much as he may have just gotten a bad haircut.  More importantly, who is this person who has dubbed himself "oc-o"?  Who would want to take credit for getting the original bad haircut?  

In response to the same entry Ryan, of Massachusetts, said...

Best coach in the game.
Best big-game qb in the game.
Best wideout in the game.
Best passing down rb in the backfield, in the game.
Best d-line in the game.
Best shutdown corner in the game.= Patriots finishing the best season in NFL history on Feb. 3rd with a W

CLASSIC!  I guarantee that when Ryan reads this portion of this blog he grits his teeth, curses my name under his breath, and pounds his closed fist against the table/desk....IN THAT ORDER!   

In response to "Whoops", Chester Copperpot, of some cave from the set of Goonies, said...

At least he didn't bust in and puke on you. I have seen it happen.

At a work event at some swanky hotel, presumably before he went to look for One-Eyed Willy's treasure and either starved to death or failed to anticipate one of countless booby traps, Chester stormed into the bathroom threw the first stall door open and, in his haste, failed to make note of the guy peeing in the stall before he threw up all over his back.   

Cree, of Brooklyn, strangely proclaimed in response to "Now Boarding"...

Welcome aboard. As I mentioned in my autobiography, sometimes I like to sit naked in front of my high-powered fan in my room with my genitals submerged in a bowl of ice water while I blast Nadja through headphones and into my soul.

"Stays Demons" is particularly enjoyable in this state:
http://www.alien8recordings.com/releases/168/Touched

Whoa.  Refilling ice trays as we speak...  

Shame

*The feats of stupidity detailed below were undertaken by college-educated miscreants so well-versed in the annals of vapid debauchery that it is possible to refer to them "experts".  Do not try any of this at home.  Do not try any of this anywhere, actually.  

I disappoint myself all the time; the sources of which are too varied to detail here.  I suppose they're sprinkled throughout much of my writing.  Friday night was a night not unlike many others before it.  My compatriots and I were coming off a long work week and into a long weekend.  We needed to blow off some serious steam.  Each of our respective significant others, for various reasons, were absent, a fact that never used to pose a problem.  Actually, the problem perhaps used to be the fact that we carried on in their presence exactly like we did in their absence.  These days, however, the presence of estrogen in our "party" is often the difference between dignity and depravity.   

The evening began harmlessly enough.  I walked to an upscale bar on the other side of town with a friend of mine -we'll call him Rich- to meet up with a mutual friend of ours -whom we'll refer to as Jack- and a friend of his whom we'd never previously met.   Our new acquaintance indicated we would be joined additionally by one of his friends from college.  This was fine with us at the time, as we were soon to be joined by three more guys from school.   I mean, we marveled at the lengths to which this guy went in order to convey to us how attractive, and subsequently promiscuous, his friend was, but ultimately thought nothing of it.   More the merrier.  

Well, you'd have been hard-pressed to find a bigger deusche in the greater Boston area.  Unable to metabolize two attractive women apparently not falling all over themselves vying for his attention, he rejoined Rich and I at the bar, rolling his eyes and mouthing, "L-Z-O."  We looked at each other, not sure if L-Z-O was something out of the metrosexual handbook he'd obviously read repeatedly, or if it was something we should know.  We both turned back to him, sporting faces that said, "Wha?"  "Lesbians" he whispered.  Needless to say, it was for the best when, an hour or so later, they went their own way and we went ours.  If I'm not recounting this inane part of the evening clearly enough, they likely moved on to a bar filled with as many hot slizzies as humanly possible.  We went to a dive bar to make asses out of ourselves.

A couple drinks and a change of venue later would find Jack and I mock-fighting each other like adolescents at a sleepover.  On this night, however, the bouncers were eager to keep patrons on a short leash.  After only one warning I was manhandled and dragged out of the bar.  Exile.  I can remember standing there, beyond the back door, wondering how long it'd been since I was last thrown out of a bar.  Shivering as I completed the thought, I walked back into the bar to get my coat.  The bouncers recognized me immediately and directed me back out the door, despite my gentle insistence, "Just let me get my f*ck*ng coat you bald piece of shit!"  By the time my friends arrived outside with my coat, they had to rush to get between me and the herd of angry bouncers who were quickly losing all patience with my antics.     

After getting over the initial shock at having been thrown out of my favorite bar, and my one true love, a hankering for more gin came over me.  I simultaneously realized there were more fish in the sea.  Didn't take long to mourn that breakup.  As we walked up the street to another watering hole, Jack lost himself for a moment.  What sort of charade was going on in his head is anyone's guess.  Paying no particular attention to him until the last possible moment, aptly characterized by an exalted anticipation, he stumbled and face planted into a steaming hot pile of garbage.  Doubled over in hysterics, we each fumbled for our ID's as Jack dusted himself off.  

"No chance.  Turn around guys.  Not here," the two bouncers urged without even cracking a smile.  

The only bar we could get into was an Irish pub that was completely empty.  Between my repeated inquiries directed at the English bar-tender as to where he was from in Ireland, and Jack's collapsing and making snow angels on the pub floor, we somehow managed to wear our welcome even as bar staff were faced with the possibility of a completely empty bar and zero tips.  Zero tips, apparently lesser of two evils on this night.  

Back at my buddy's place for some night cappers, Jack found it prudent to repeatedly pull his dick out of his pants.  "Put your dick away, dude!" warnings were ignored.  Eventually, my buddy Timmy had had enough, so he poured a beer on it.   The snake shrank back into it's wet cage.  Soon after, Jack crossed that very real line of drunkenness, and could no longer stand up or talk.  

Being the good friends that we are, we delivered him unto his bed and his loving girlfriend, who had stayed home that night with a cold.  As we dropped him into bed she demanded, "Oh no!  What happened?!  What'd you guys do to him?"  What sort of response she was given, is really anyone's guess.  We'd likely have to ask her in order to know for sure.  For good measure, though, after she had taken his pants off and he hovered his head over the garbage can strategically placed next to his bed, we ripped his boxers off, took a bow, and left the apartment, destruction in our wake.  

Aside from walking home in the middle of the night without a jacket, and the next day a severely hungover and depressing jaunt to the dog track, I'd been under the mistaken impression that this was the extent of our collective exploits until yesterday.  I can't say I was proud, but I did take a certain solace in the fact that I crawled into my bed under my own power.  Then I received the following email:

I am writing to inform you all that Jack may not have been the biggest slob of the bunch on Friday night.  I received a call this morning from the property manager (really nice lady).  I figured she was calling because we have a clogged drain and a broken dishwasher....  But the call was not actually about either of those things.  She asks me.."Did you have people over late on Friday night?"  My reply: "Uuuhh yes."  She continues, "Someone who left your apartment ripped all of the flowers out of the arrangement in the lobby and threw them in the street outside." My initial reaction: Deny, deny, deny.  But before I utter a word, she reminds me we that we all walked in together and that there are cameras.  So I ask her to describe the

culprit. She says there were two guys, one a blonde that had nothing to do with the situation. The flower destroyer was wearing a dark colored hooded sweatshirt and had dark hair.  I replied that yes I did know him.  

If it had perhaps been someone else, I could find some humor in this story.  The fact of the matter is, however, that it wasn't someone else.  Needless to say, Moose is never leaving me to fend for myself again.  And who could blame her?

I'll Be Back With A Vengeance Tomorrow

Story to feature inadvertent plunge into trash pile, bar fight, video surveillance, skinheads, and public indecency.  

Amazing

I think Eddie Murphy used to date Mussolini.

Tommy, steppin' out on Katie.  

Demetri Martin.  This guy is hilarious.  

Wax Him

This guy should be ashamed of himself.  Not only did he fall out of the ugly tree and hit every single branch on the way down, but his crusade to clean up baseball is a horrible misappropriation of government resources during a time of war and economic uncertainty.  How the federal government reconciles these plagues with an apparent fascination and subsequent preoccupation with baseball's inability to police itself, we'll likely never know.  

Give us a break Waxman.  Go crawl back into whatever hole you came from.  Apparently, somewhere in California.  For some reason this doesn't surprise me.      

Okay, Last One For Real

I cannot and will not pretend I was at any point in my life friends with this kid. Senior year in college, having taken a punch to the face on my buddy Joe's behalf (he's the star of the YouTuble clip in the previous post), my only interaction with the following story's protagonist was almost getting into a fight with him in the aftermath. Long, stupid story. Regardless, eventually, this week after a long chain of forwarded emails, his story and pictures reached my inbox.  It's amazing.  Really amazing.  Kudos to this kid for having the "gumption" to follow through with this.  There are about 10 occasions along the way where a lesser fan would have bailed out.  

Hello everyone, I know many of you have heard about my story so far but for those of you that haven't......Take the time to read below (it's long but worth it) and look at the pictures and watch the videos. I had the best day of my life yesterday and it is one of the funniest stories you will ever hear.

So I got home from Arizona late Monday night after seeing the Giants win an amazing Super Bowl. I had an unbelievable weekend and I didn't think it could ever be topped....until yesterday.

Around 11:30 yesterday morning I decided to go and checkout the Giants ticker-tape parade. I figured I would just go for an hour or so and then head back home to get some work done. Little did I know it would turn into an 8 hour affair.

I received a pass to get onto the City Hall grounds which got me relatively near the action. Once I realized that my designated section was actually pretty far away from the stage, I decided to move a little closer. I then snuck into the press section directly in front of the stage. I was sporting my Eli Manning Super Bowl jersey with a Giants hat and around my neck I had my lanyard and ticket stub from the Super Bowl. That is what saved me all day. The lanyard looked very "professional" so I was able to sneak into the press area.

Once the ceremony was over and the Giants started to move off of the stage, I creeped up to the stage. I then looked behind me and John Mara was there with his wife (the majority owner of the team). I then kind of blended in with his family as they were walking out and next thing I knew I got through the first security checkpoint. There were three more security checkpoints and with each one I got more and more nervous. I simply just walked aside Mr. Mara and his family (which was about 20 people deep) so it wasn't hard for me to blend in really. Next thing I know, they are guiding us to the other side of City Hall where there are four luxury buses waiting. I just kept walking along and next thing I know I had two of the four buses to choose from. I wanted to find the players bus but I didn't want to press my luck so I stayed with what worked. I just kept following Mr. Mara. I actually got on the bus directly in between him and his wife. I then sat down on the bus and just kept my head down. I didn't make eye contact with anyone or speak to anyone, I was so nervous. Sitting next to me was David Tyree's mother (he was two rows back with his son) and one row in front of me to my right was John Mara and his daughter (who happens to be gorgeous)

As we are pulling away from City Hall, the streets are lined with Giants fans cheering for "us" and we had a police escort the entire way to Giants Stadium. That's where things got interesting. We got off the bus and were escorted directly into the Stadium tunnel. This is where I thought I was going to get caught. I had no idea what to do next. All of the players went in the locker room and all the Mara's said they were going up to the owner's box for the ceremony. I had to make a decision. I then saw David Tyree walking in with his little son and decided I would act like I was with them. I walked right behind him and got right into the locker room. So now the real fun starts. I'm hanging out as if I'm a player while all the guys in the locker room are just getting each other's autographs on the game balls and on their jerseys. This was my time to shine. I walked around and took some pictures of some of the lockers and then I got to Eli's. I asked Eli if he could sign my ticket stub from the Super Bowl, which he did. I then asked him to sign my Super Bowl jersey, which he did. I was then ecstatic and didn't know what to do. I even had people coming up to me asking me for my autograph. They must have thought I was Lawrence Tynes (the kicker) or something.

I stopped getting autographs at that point other than Brandon Jacobs signing my hat. By then all of the players were being called onto the field for the ceremony. So I figured...why not go with them. I walked right out into the tunnel with them and as they announced the players coming out, I just stood there shaking, thinking I was bound to get caught. I look to my left and Tom Coughlin is literally about 6 inches from me holding the Lombardi trophy (see great picture). Then I just went for it....I walked out there like I was on the team. I came out and there were probably 20-30,000 fans at the stadium all screaming and going crazy. I tried to take as much video as I could but I was so nervous/scared/excited at the same time. My favorite picture of the whole event can be found at www.nj.com/giants/ where I am directly behind Tom Coughlin running around the field. I watched the whole ceremony from literally right in front of the stage.

After the ceremony, I had to try to sneak back in to the locker room. I then saw a couple people of the Mara family (there were so many of them) that must not have gone up to the luxury box and once again I just acted like I was a family member. Next thing I know, I make it through two more security checkpoints and I'm right back in the locker room. This is where it was awesome. All the players were just dancing around and having a good time. Many of them were cleaning out their lockers and throwing things away. This is where I took all the pictures with the players. I could care less if I got caught at this point. I was just a lucky Giant fan that happened to sneak his way into the press section, then on to the owners bus, onto the field and into the locker room, all while going unnoticed. I then walked around the locker room and got every single player to sign my hat and I even got Gibril Wilson's game sweatshirt from him that he signed for me.

So I walked away with an Eli Manning signed Super Bowl ticket, an Eli signed Super Bowl jersey, a hat signed by the whole team, my City Hall access pass signed by Strahan and Gibril Wilson's signed game sweatshirt.

Hooligans

Some of you have likely never seen this.  Some of you who have, might want to take a look at this again.  

A group of my buddies from college went to the World Cup in Germany two summers ago.  Having been over-served at soccer match, this happened to Joey.    

Music Videos I've Been Obsessed With Over The Last 15 Years Or So

Some crazy and some not so crazy:

Do the Evolution (makes one hell of a statement)

Almost Crimes (I could probably write a book about how hot Feist is in this video, dancing her ass off)

Schism (imperative that you listen to the entire song and watch the entire video)

Verbal

Off the Record

Feel the Pain

Sledgehammer

Title and Registration (Ben Gibbard's a pussy, but this is a well-written song and a cool video)

Soul Meets Body (see above)

Are You In? (say what you want about Incubus but this is a good song and a great video- the end in particular)

Games without Frontiers

Street Spirit (on the off chance you've never seen it before, this is perhaps the greatest video of all-time)

Land of Confusion 

November Rain

Vaseline

Killing in the Name Of

Basketcase (it's funny to put Greenday next to Rage on any list)

In Bloom (might be even funnier to put Nirvana next to Greenday on any list)

Last One...'Til Next Year

I won a playoff pool in a tiebreaker because I borrowed from Plaxico's prediction.  The best part is, I really only used 23-17 because it was antagonistic.  The fact that I actually won with it only makes the entire thing better.  

Was that game amazing? Or was that game amazing?

It's funny.  It's actually hilarious.  For two weeks I was taunted, reminded incessantly that the Pats weren't just going to win, they were going to destroy the Giants.  Grown men made plans to skip work tomorrow to line the streets of Boston for an inevitable victory parade.  They scoffed at my insistence this game was actually worth playing. 

When Eli Manning lobbed that last pass into the night sky, into history, and ultimately into Plax's lap, I was temporarily afforded the opportunity to become 10 years-old again.  As I stood, arms outstretched, screaming uncontrollably, jumping up and down, I was utterly and completely lost in a life-affirming, sports-affirming moment. 

When all was said and done, however, I was one of a lonely few Bostonians welling up with excitement and pride as I walked home from the North End to Charlestown, head and Giants hat held high. Urged by a friend to put the hat away for the walk, I had respectfully declined as we stepped out of the apartment building and into the cold.   No sooner had I turned my back on a mob of drunken smokers in mourning, than a barrage of incendiary epithets were hurled my way. The breadth of my grin reached new heights.  There was no need to turn back.