It bothers me that movies cost $13.50. It bothers me that most of them are in 3-D and that you HAVE to pay for it in 3-D, yet most movies BLOW in 3-D. It bothers me that a small popcorn costs $6.50, when it costs the movie theater about 10 CENTS for the entire product. It bothers me that a small drink is like 48 ounces. For a SMALL! This is one reason why we are fat in America. It bothers me that a Dasani water is $4.50—and you have no choice but to pay it because most theaters don’t even offer a small anymore, just the large. Forget being ‘green’ for a second, it bothers me that the movies don’t blast the air conditioning like they used to. Especially in the hot-ass summer. Especially after I waited 20 minutes on line—outside—to get in. Why the hell else am I paying $13.50 to see a movie? To cool down, dick! It bothers me that the theaters keep getting bigger and bigger, the tickets get more and more expensive, and the screens get smaller and smaller. A few inches smaller and my living room TV will be the same damn size!
It bothers me that movies don’t even start on time anymore. It bothers me that I have to watch 20 minutes of commercials for Coca-Cola and TNT dramas that I fast-forward through on my home TV and that I’ll never watch anyway. It bothers me that half the previews that are shown in the theater are already playing on regular TV. It bothers me that when the pre-show crap finally ends and the movie should begin no one is ever there to start the projector so you’re stuck, waiting, wasting even more time because no one is ever there to push play.
It bothers me when inconsiderate people leave their jackets and bags on empty chairs. People sit in the aisles during a crowded showing because of these people. It bothers me when parents bring their kids to R-rated movies. It bothers me when parents bring their children to PG-rated movies at night. I’m sorry but your six-year-old should be sleeping by then, not watching Toy Story 3 in 3-D (which, incidentally, cost you an arm and a leg … and $6.50 for popcorn!). It’s even worse when these horrible parents let their kids run amok all over the theater. Some people should need a license to have kids, I’m telling you. And I want the authority to hand them out!
It bothers me when people text throughout the show. Bothers me to no end. Put the friggin’ phone down for two hours! I’m sorry, but Laqueshia getting her hair did for 11 hours is news that can wait! It bothers me when grandpa can’t hear squat, can’t follow along, so every five minutes he screams to his wife to explain what just happened to him. It bothers me when parents let their kids just keep on crying during the movie, instead of taking them outside. Hey, I screamed my head off during Black Beauty when I was young, but you know what my mom did? Took me to the damn lobby!
It bothers me when people kick my chair throughout the whole show. It bothers me when someone gets up during the movie and puts their hand on the back of my chair to steady themselves with no realization that they just threw me off balance and made me spill my 48-ounce SMALL drink on my lap! It bothers me when people are bad armrest sharers. Seriously, even if you are 412 pounds, you do not have the right to both armrests. Fat ass, learn how to share! It bothers me when you have teenagers behind you that don’t shut the fuck up. (And, yes, I realize I was one of them once.) And it bothers me when people refuse to throw their garbage out when movie theaters have garbage cans EVERYWHERE now. The cleanup is what makes me stand out in the damn heat for 20 minutes. Because Mr. Fat-Ass-Texter-Who-Won’t-Shut-The-Fuck-Up refused to throw out his 64-ounce drink and TUB of popcorn.
But mostly it bothers me that I still like going to the movies. However, I buy my tickets at Costco now: $15 for two tickets. That’s my little stick-it-to-the-man play.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Hairballs and fruit salad
There's a contest in my house to see who could shed the most hair ... between my wife and my cat. I'm not complaining; my wife's hair smells like fruit salad, and I have a very cool Siamese cat. But like in a Dashboard Confessional song: their "haaaaair is eeev-reee-wheeeeeerrrrreeeee!" I have cat hair on my underwear, because he usually sleeps in my underwear drawer, and I have my wife's hair in my underwear, because we wash our clothes together and it just gets inside there. It's a mystery of (probably not so complicated) physics.
But the cat is curious. You know that old observation where a dog will immediately stick his head out the window of a moving car but turns away if you blow in his face? Why is that? My cat, like most of 'em, loves running water. So we always let him drink from the faucet. He has a bowl of fresh water that sits on the floor for him every day, next to his food. But does he drink from it? Rarely. But if we left the toilet seat up he makes a beeline for the bowl. Why the hell is that? So strange. And friggin' disgusting!
Women ... can't live with 'em and they can't pee standing up. Cats ... well, just don't really have to live with 'em ... if it weren't for the women!
But the cat is curious. You know that old observation where a dog will immediately stick his head out the window of a moving car but turns away if you blow in his face? Why is that? My cat, like most of 'em, loves running water. So we always let him drink from the faucet. He has a bowl of fresh water that sits on the floor for him every day, next to his food. But does he drink from it? Rarely. But if we left the toilet seat up he makes a beeline for the bowl. Why the hell is that? So strange. And friggin' disgusting!
Women ... can't live with 'em and they can't pee standing up. Cats ... well, just don't really have to live with 'em ... if it weren't for the women!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Multi-tasking my ass!
If you rear-end someone while driving your car, it is automatically your fault. If you are walking on the street and walk directly into the person in front of you it is no longer your fault. Fuck them.
Why, you ask? Because of walking and texting! Oh, I cannot stand it, as I'm sure many of you can attest to the nuisance it is. Especially on a busy New York street. Especiallier during rush hour when you are heading to the subway and the sidewalks are incredibly crowded. Especially to the especially power when it's hot as fuck out and we're all sweating our nuts off. (Side comment: Touching anybody else's sweat is the grossest thing imaginable. I'd rather find Ron Jeremy's pube in my salad!)
Anyone who is texting while walking is clearly a self-centered piece of shit. They are clearly not concentrating on where they are going, or on the speed they are traveling, and they undoubtedly slow their pace so as to concentrate on their (most likely meaningless) text.
I generally have a short temper, and while I don't look like much physically, when I get angry I get a look in my eye that is fierce. I am also relentless and scream like a black woman whose wig got knocked off in church by her piss-ant nephew. And while you never know what kind of crazy person you are walking next to on a city block, I still find it acceptable to give a woman/gay man (the most guilty offenders) a quick piece of my mind as I walk directly into her/his-her texting-fat-ass, as is what just happened to me outside the Levi's store on Lexington (right across from Bloomingdale's). I mean she looked at me like I was the asshole, like I should have been the one looking where I'm going. Um, excuse me, lady, but next time you have a problem, fucking look up! How would you like it if your dentist was reading Maxim while filling your rotting Mexican teeth with copper? The next time your son is arrested, how would you like it if my public defender brother decides to accidentally skip your kid's arraignment and send me instead?
Thought so!
From now on, New Yorkers would be much happier if A) those Freedom Towers finally got built B) The summer Hamptons crowd stayed permanently in the Hamptons and C) some of our stimulus money went to this here.
Next time I walk into someone because they are texting, I will immediately throw my phone at their head while simultaneously holding up this picture, to one of the coolest—and most useful apps—I've seen in awhile:
Why, you ask? Because of walking and texting! Oh, I cannot stand it, as I'm sure many of you can attest to the nuisance it is. Especially on a busy New York street. Especiallier during rush hour when you are heading to the subway and the sidewalks are incredibly crowded. Especially to the especially power when it's hot as fuck out and we're all sweating our nuts off. (Side comment: Touching anybody else's sweat is the grossest thing imaginable. I'd rather find Ron Jeremy's pube in my salad!)
Anyone who is texting while walking is clearly a self-centered piece of shit. They are clearly not concentrating on where they are going, or on the speed they are traveling, and they undoubtedly slow their pace so as to concentrate on their (most likely meaningless) text.
I generally have a short temper, and while I don't look like much physically, when I get angry I get a look in my eye that is fierce. I am also relentless and scream like a black woman whose wig got knocked off in church by her piss-ant nephew. And while you never know what kind of crazy person you are walking next to on a city block, I still find it acceptable to give a woman/gay man (the most guilty offenders) a quick piece of my mind as I walk directly into her/his-her texting-fat-ass, as is what just happened to me outside the Levi's store on Lexington (right across from Bloomingdale's). I mean she looked at me like I was the asshole, like I should have been the one looking where I'm going. Um, excuse me, lady, but next time you have a problem, fucking look up! How would you like it if your dentist was reading Maxim while filling your rotting Mexican teeth with copper? The next time your son is arrested, how would you like it if my public defender brother decides to accidentally skip your kid's arraignment and send me instead?
Thought so!
From now on, New Yorkers would be much happier if A) those Freedom Towers finally got built B) The summer Hamptons crowd stayed permanently in the Hamptons and C) some of our stimulus money went to this here.
Next time I walk into someone because they are texting, I will immediately throw my phone at their head while simultaneously holding up this picture, to one of the coolest—and most useful apps—I've seen in awhile:
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Growing Pains
Ah, to be young. The things we take for granted. Like living at home with your parents. The fridge is always stocked, laundry is free (and downstairs!), your mom will pick up the toiletries you need for you. Putting aside our teenage angst, and the I-can’t-wait-to-grow-up attitude, we really didn’t have it so bad.
(Heck, when I was in high school I'd put $10 of gas in my shitbox car and it would actually last the week! Touche.)
I don’t really mind being an adult now, it’s just I didn’t realize some of the good ways I had it before. Sometimes I’d gladly trade knowing I have to work 14 hours on a Friday for being 17 again, with a curfew. But so be it.
So now I find myself kind of rekindling my youth in unorthodox ways. How else do you explain my love—er, obsession—with sneakers. Sneakers are a big thing for me. I own A LOT of pairs of sneakers. I think it’s really because I never had the ‘cool’ kicks when I was a kid. They were just too expensive for my parents to buy me. They left my brother and I a budget of $40 to get a pair. That was tough at the sneaker store. I was lucky to find something decent at TJMaxx or Marshall’s. I’m not complaining, I wasn’t deprived, and I was only teased occasionally, rather than picked on (a rite of growing up, I feel), so it wasn’t an issue that made me bitter or anything. But I lived in a place where most of my friends were really spoiled. And so maybe I was a little envious of the material things they had. Hence, why I buy sneakers: I can afford them! If I want some Air Max 95’s or some Air Jordan III’s I can buy them for myself. It’s nice to have that freedom. The $100+ for sneakers luckily now takes me no time to earn; in high school it took like a week. So the cost is little but the satisfaction is great for me.
These creature comforts extend beyond my closet. And it’s always a little thing, something maybe you may take for granted. Honestly, good toilet paper! Can’t put a price on an honest mechanic, a good haircut and good toilet paper! My parents always used to buy that crap, frozen canned orange juice and that crap Scott tissue toilet paper. I convinced them half-gallons of Tropicana were the way to go, and I happily drank my yummy, non-watered-down juice from then on. But that toilet paper—to this day they still use that horrible, cheap toilet paper. I vow that poor excuse for a product will never enter my house again. Now that's a benefit of being an adult!
I recently started a new job, in a new office, a month ago. I'm comfortable here, but still settling in, feeling people out. And let’s just say I finally had to ‘christen’ the place last week. I was DYING the rest of the day. Good Lord I needed a Preparation-H baby wipe after that one! The mixture of sand and tissue paper they put in those stalls is just inhumane. The pain was physical but also emotional, drumming up all those horrible dumps as a kid finished in an unsatisfactory manner with that Scott tissue.
I hope my brothers out there feel my pain. I ask, Have any of my fellahs out there ever been in a work bathroom stall that was supplied appropriately? I doubt it. Now, this place steps it up like a law firm, with hand sanitizer, a plethora of hair products, mouthwash, colognes and deodorants, in case you need a little refresher. So how bout stepping it up on the main stuff!
I got a little stockpile in my desk drawer now; the ‘emergency’ drawer, if you will. From now on, if I’m heading to do some ‘extra work,’ I come prepared. I’m heading down the hall with the BlackBerry, the AMNY, and some good ol’ medicated baby wipes. Hallelujah! I'm an adult, goddammit! And I'm setting the rules now!
(Heck, when I was in high school I'd put $10 of gas in my shitbox car and it would actually last the week! Touche.)
I don’t really mind being an adult now, it’s just I didn’t realize some of the good ways I had it before. Sometimes I’d gladly trade knowing I have to work 14 hours on a Friday for being 17 again, with a curfew. But so be it.
So now I find myself kind of rekindling my youth in unorthodox ways. How else do you explain my love—er, obsession—with sneakers. Sneakers are a big thing for me. I own A LOT of pairs of sneakers. I think it’s really because I never had the ‘cool’ kicks when I was a kid. They were just too expensive for my parents to buy me. They left my brother and I a budget of $40 to get a pair. That was tough at the sneaker store. I was lucky to find something decent at TJMaxx or Marshall’s. I’m not complaining, I wasn’t deprived, and I was only teased occasionally, rather than picked on (a rite of growing up, I feel), so it wasn’t an issue that made me bitter or anything. But I lived in a place where most of my friends were really spoiled. And so maybe I was a little envious of the material things they had. Hence, why I buy sneakers: I can afford them! If I want some Air Max 95’s or some Air Jordan III’s I can buy them for myself. It’s nice to have that freedom. The $100+ for sneakers luckily now takes me no time to earn; in high school it took like a week. So the cost is little but the satisfaction is great for me.
These creature comforts extend beyond my closet. And it’s always a little thing, something maybe you may take for granted. Honestly, good toilet paper! Can’t put a price on an honest mechanic, a good haircut and good toilet paper! My parents always used to buy that crap, frozen canned orange juice and that crap Scott tissue toilet paper. I convinced them half-gallons of Tropicana were the way to go, and I happily drank my yummy, non-watered-down juice from then on. But that toilet paper—to this day they still use that horrible, cheap toilet paper. I vow that poor excuse for a product will never enter my house again. Now that's a benefit of being an adult!
I recently started a new job, in a new office, a month ago. I'm comfortable here, but still settling in, feeling people out. And let’s just say I finally had to ‘christen’ the place last week. I was DYING the rest of the day. Good Lord I needed a Preparation-H baby wipe after that one! The mixture of sand and tissue paper they put in those stalls is just inhumane. The pain was physical but also emotional, drumming up all those horrible dumps as a kid finished in an unsatisfactory manner with that Scott tissue.
I hope my brothers out there feel my pain. I ask, Have any of my fellahs out there ever been in a work bathroom stall that was supplied appropriately? I doubt it. Now, this place steps it up like a law firm, with hand sanitizer, a plethora of hair products, mouthwash, colognes and deodorants, in case you need a little refresher. So how bout stepping it up on the main stuff!
I got a little stockpile in my desk drawer now; the ‘emergency’ drawer, if you will. From now on, if I’m heading to do some ‘extra work,’ I come prepared. I’m heading down the hall with the BlackBerry, the AMNY, and some good ol’ medicated baby wipes. Hallelujah! I'm an adult, goddammit! And I'm setting the rules now!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Bag ladies: Hideous monsters or dazzling beauties? Next, on Mr. Sinister!
I love women. All women. Well, maybe not fat, ugly or annoying women. And especially no combination of the three. But I still love the ladies. Only, I'm perplexed by them.
I mean, all men concede we'll never understand women, but there are just some things you ladies do that are just more baffling than others. Take for instance your daily routines. Now, I'm not here to comment on what you do in the bathroom or why we are always left waiting for countless hours just to walk across the street to the diner. The one issue recently I've been trying to come to grips with is your everyday traveling accoutrements.
Lately, navigating a sidewalk, street corner and, especially, subway is like a running back's gauntlet drill. How can I move without getting hit by various objects? Ever notice what a woman has with her while heading to work? In my observation the women of New York City will carry a purse or pocketbook (whatever you women are calling those things these days!). Pretty normal, right? Ok, I get that one. Then there may be a gym bag of some sort, or one of those canvas ecofriendly bags from Origins or some shit. I get that, too. You ladies wanna look good and we appreciate it. But then there's always that 'extra' bag; that one teeny little Bloomingdale's bag that you have in your hand. What's that for?! What the heck do you have in there that wouldn't fit into your other two bags? I'm bewildered.
It's not that I really even need to know how much crap you girls are carrying. Frankly, why the hell would I care? But why the heck do you INSIST on keeping all those things on your shoulders and in your hands on a crowded subway. Surely one of those bags can hang out down by your feet for a few minutes instead of squishing me even more into the corner! Surely, I don't need to be hit in the elbow time and again by those enormous, ugly "CD" letters that hang off your expensive and tacky bag! Your 120-pound ass (hopefully) is taking up precious square footage real estate around town like a chick whose Friday nights consist of making Duncan Hines brownies and watching Gilmore Girls reruns.
Like I said, I love you ladies, you're all interesting and beautiful creatures. Just put the fucking bag down. You ain't Pretty Woman on Rodeo either!
I mean, all men concede we'll never understand women, but there are just some things you ladies do that are just more baffling than others. Take for instance your daily routines. Now, I'm not here to comment on what you do in the bathroom or why we are always left waiting for countless hours just to walk across the street to the diner. The one issue recently I've been trying to come to grips with is your everyday traveling accoutrements.
Lately, navigating a sidewalk, street corner and, especially, subway is like a running back's gauntlet drill. How can I move without getting hit by various objects? Ever notice what a woman has with her while heading to work? In my observation the women of New York City will carry a purse or pocketbook (whatever you women are calling those things these days!). Pretty normal, right? Ok, I get that one. Then there may be a gym bag of some sort, or one of those canvas ecofriendly bags from Origins or some shit. I get that, too. You ladies wanna look good and we appreciate it. But then there's always that 'extra' bag; that one teeny little Bloomingdale's bag that you have in your hand. What's that for?! What the heck do you have in there that wouldn't fit into your other two bags? I'm bewildered.
It's not that I really even need to know how much crap you girls are carrying. Frankly, why the hell would I care? But why the heck do you INSIST on keeping all those things on your shoulders and in your hands on a crowded subway. Surely one of those bags can hang out down by your feet for a few minutes instead of squishing me even more into the corner! Surely, I don't need to be hit in the elbow time and again by those enormous, ugly "CD" letters that hang off your expensive and tacky bag! Your 120-pound ass (hopefully) is taking up precious square footage real estate around town like a chick whose Friday nights consist of making Duncan Hines brownies and watching Gilmore Girls reruns.
Like I said, I love you ladies, you're all interesting and beautiful creatures. Just put the fucking bag down. You ain't Pretty Woman on Rodeo either!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Ejector seat needed
I rarely, if ever, sit on the subway. Since today I was coming home at an off hour and there were seats available I decided to sit. I'm Rosa Parks for a new generation. (No, I'm really not.) After a few stops the benches were fairly filled up. But you know what, even if you are 5'2" and weight 112 pounds—if there are only FOUR INCHES OF ASS ROOM between me and the next person, YOU DO NOT HAVE TO SQUEEZE YOUR ASS DOWN IN THAT SPACE!
Look, I'm going to resist the temptation to go on a rant here, but let's just say the person who did this was of a culture where they have 2 billion people living in a space the size of Milwaukee!
Look, I'm going to resist the temptation to go on a rant here, but let's just say the person who did this was of a culture where they have 2 billion people living in a space the size of Milwaukee!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Random Thoughts: Vol. 3
1) Bono is Irish. Celine Dion is French Canadian. Robert Plant is British. Kieth Urban is Australian. Know what they all have in common? You can't tell where they're from when they're singing. Why is it that every singer, no matter their nationality, has no discernible accent? All singers, that is, except country singers! How is it that they talk in that horrible twang and it somehow translates to their singing voice? The only exception to this norm I can think of is friggin' Chumbawumba. (I ge' knowcked down bu' I ge' up agayhn...)
2) What do Nic Cage, Matthew McConaughey, David Spade, Jude Law, John Travolta and Jeremy Piven all have in common? They miraculously have heads of hair again. Speaking from a curious point of view, How the heck did they do that?!
3) Who started the ass slap? Gayest thing in sports ever. It's the Glee of sports. If Derek Jeter slaps Mark Teixiera's ass one minute and then starts talking about Glee the next, you can just put him right on the cover of Out magazine.
4) I've always wondered why pharmacists need MD's? Now, I truly don't mean to disrespect the pharmacists; I have several friends who are pharmacists. But it's the doctors who prescribe the medicines. It seems to me all the pharmacists do is reach on a shelf, pull out some pills, count them out, and put them in a little cylinder with your name on it. In what part of the equation did they need to know anything about medicine? All the warning labels and directions for administering the drugs are already on the labels. So what, exactly, do they do then? Have you ever tried to ask a pharmacist a question? They never know the answer. Most times they just read the labels themselves. Heck, they can't even tell me where the Tylenol is in the CVS!
5) I reserve the right to expand on this with more examples, but I was thinking about this the other day: Is there no harsher sounding word in the English language than Manslaughter? Speaking in legal jargon, I know the word Murder came about 1,000 years ago to speak of the most heinous crime a man can commit. But just take the words at their face value; doesn't manslaughter just sound so much worse? Think about it: the Slaughter of Man! I mean, that's awful. Way worse (sounding) than murder. I wonder how many other words are out there that just have much better connotation than how we're using them at the moment?
2) What do Nic Cage, Matthew McConaughey, David Spade, Jude Law, John Travolta and Jeremy Piven all have in common? They miraculously have heads of hair again. Speaking from a curious point of view, How the heck did they do that?!
3) Who started the ass slap? Gayest thing in sports ever. It's the Glee of sports. If Derek Jeter slaps Mark Teixiera's ass one minute and then starts talking about Glee the next, you can just put him right on the cover of Out magazine.
4) I've always wondered why pharmacists need MD's? Now, I truly don't mean to disrespect the pharmacists; I have several friends who are pharmacists. But it's the doctors who prescribe the medicines. It seems to me all the pharmacists do is reach on a shelf, pull out some pills, count them out, and put them in a little cylinder with your name on it. In what part of the equation did they need to know anything about medicine? All the warning labels and directions for administering the drugs are already on the labels. So what, exactly, do they do then? Have you ever tried to ask a pharmacist a question? They never know the answer. Most times they just read the labels themselves. Heck, they can't even tell me where the Tylenol is in the CVS!
5) I reserve the right to expand on this with more examples, but I was thinking about this the other day: Is there no harsher sounding word in the English language than Manslaughter? Speaking in legal jargon, I know the word Murder came about 1,000 years ago to speak of the most heinous crime a man can commit. But just take the words at their face value; doesn't manslaughter just sound so much worse? Think about it: the Slaughter of Man! I mean, that's awful. Way worse (sounding) than murder. I wonder how many other words are out there that just have much better connotation than how we're using them at the moment?
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