Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Friday, July 30, 2004

A little while ago I said that my vote in November would be less of one for Kerry, and more of one against Bush. I felt kind of guilty about that, because it felt false. I didn't like the idea of voting for someone just to not vote for someone else. But after last night's speech, I think I have changed my mind. Look at me! Wavering on the issues. Just like John Kerry! People really do change their minds.

For me, that was always the weakest argument against Kerry. That he changes his mind a lot. Who doesn't? I'd rather have a president who can admit that maybe he made a mistake and it's time to rethink things, rather than have one who insists on pretending nothing is wrong, and that if something per chance does go wrong, it's an isolated incident.

Anyway, Kerry last night was awesome. I was shocked at how effective his speech was. I was actually excited about it at points. Not, "Hey I've got a boner!" excited, but "Hey, he is actually starting to look like someone who can be a president. That's exciting! Now, where did I put my boner?"

I love saying boner.

I did think he went to the "I was in Vietnam" well a time too many, he spit a couple of times, and I'm pretty sure he said something about kids in Harlem getting asthma because of "hair pollution", but this is all petty crap. It was a good speech. Oh, and I'm pretty sure that thing he said about Hussein buying uranium from Africa was... oh.

And I know that it's just that. A speech. He made promises he'll break. He said he wouldn't do things he will probably do. But hey. That's politics, bitch. And I'm just going on what I saw. I have to trust that. I liked him. He was good. He seemed sincere. What more can I tell you? Up until now, all I've had his goofy ass pictures of the man, but now I finally feel confident about voting for him. After it was over, I was thinking of all of the other candidates and what their speeches would have been like. I can't imagine anyone would have been half as good.

The one positive thing I can say about Bush over the last three years is that he has made more people take an interest in politics. So thank you, Mr. President, for your misguided views. It's nice to have something to care about.

On a side note, are all the good words gone? One of the best lines in the speech last night was the one from Abraham Lincoln (for those who don't know, he was a guy who used to live that was nice to black people), where he said, "I want to pray humbly that we are on God's side." A nice little jab at Bush's "Jesus made me do it" policies. But it's tough to find new phrases and bits of speeches that are going to last. As a communist I work with pointed out, the best line was probably the "And it is time for those who talk about family values to start valuing families." I'm not sure if they will replay that one much for future generations.

Anyway, this will be one of the very few elections I will truly be interested in and give a crap about. Doesn't mean I'm ever going to register to vote, but I will complain my boner off.

Just kidding. I am registered. Under so many different names.

My iTunes decided to randomly play Where is My Mind? by the Pixies. How appropo!

I found out today that my credit check was excellent and if I want this apartment in Queens, it is mine. The problem with this seemingly good news is that when I got this email telling me about my awesome ability to pay bills on time, I was in the middle of a meeting at work in which it was announced we are moving from our humble abode in midtown Manhattan to the barely friendly confines of Jersey City, NJ, which is where I first started at this job. This would make my commute pretty long from Brooklyn. Even longer from Queens.

Gah. I believe this is what I've heard people call a "crossroads" of your life. Perhaps I'll go rent that Britney Spears movie. If anyone can show me the way, it's Brit. Before you know it, I'll marry some boy from the south who has two kids. And somewhere along the way, I'm sure I'll be in a convertible with my arms in the air singing "Walking on Sunshine".

No clue what I want to do right now. I work at a job that I am happy with some of the time, and other times I look up laws about where I can find a gun, because I need it now!!! Tomorrow will be one of those days that I like when I go out with a bunch of co-workers to celebrate the last day of Kevin Jones.

YEAH! Kevin Jones!!! Whooo! What up nigga!!!!

Kevin once mentioned that I don't mention him on my blog. Consider yourself mentioned. Have fun in Jolly Old England. I just noticed that Jolly Old England's acronym would be JOE. Wouldn't that be cool if England changed its name to Joe? Yes it would.

Hey Kevin, have fun in JOE.

That's funny on a couple of levels. Well, only one level I suppose.

So what the fuck do I do about my job? We're talking about me here, not you Kevin. Maybe I can come with?

Motherfucking Jersey City. Just when I thought I was out, it pulls me back in. I can always go back to The Iron Monkey.

/NOTE TO EDITORS: I was kidding about the gun./

Earlier today I was standing. Sometimes I do that. I then felt my phone begin to vibrate in my left front pocket. I went in to my pocket to remove the phone, and then answer it. My pocket is not large, so it didn't take me long to realize I had no phone on my person. 'Twas in my living room.

I am randomly vibrating. Perhaps I should see a doctor.

Someone got to my blog by searching "scott peterson and the ice cream theory". I have no idea what that theory is, but I'm all ears. I'd love to know. It sounds way more convincing than the "had to kill pretty wife so i could date ugly lady" theory.

That also sounds like a great name for a band. If Scott ever gets out of this little mess he's in, he should definitely start up a band called Scott Peterson and the Ice Cream Theory. The title of his first album? Gone Fishin'.

Someone else got to my site by searching "auditions for Huggies commercials". I'm assuming that's a parent searching on behalf of their baby. Probably not a baby who thinks he/she would totally nail an audition.

"Okay, little Johnny, are you ready? Good. Aaaaand, now! Poop your pants! Perfect! Oh, what a fabulous poop! I don't throw compliments around very often, but son, you have got it! I've seen poop from here to Asia, and that is the finest poop I have ever seen!"

Speaking of poop, I was in Newark, NJ Monday night for the Newark Bears game. It was a work outing. I hung with Anise, Bill and Jeff.

Rickey Henderson plays for the Bears. He is still awesome and old (45). In contrast, Ricky Williams is 27 and he just retired. I'd like to know what Rickey with an e thinks about that.

Two fine examples of The American Dream. You have Rickey Henderson, who is one of the greatest players to ever play the game of baseball. After breaking records all over the place, he could be sitting anywhere in the world on a beach with a beer in one hand and a boob in the other, wiping beads of sweat from his brow using hundred dollar bills, smiling at nothing, saying to people, "I was Rickey Henderson." Yet he is playing baseball in Newark, NJ for a minor league team where he might make $50,000. Might. And may I add, he is still playing his ass off. The guy can still fly.

Then you have Ricky Williams. One of the greatest college running backs of all time, on his way to becoming one of the elite running backs of all time in the NFL, making heaps upon heaps of money, but decides to retire at the age of 27 so he could travel. I guess those trips to Buffalo and Foxboro, Massachusetts twice a year didn't fulfill his sightseeing qualifications. Now he can go anywhere he wants, roll joints with hundred dollar bills, and get all the boobs he pleases.

Two fine American Dreams. Not sure which one I'd choose. Probably Rickey's dream. Although I would have been nicer to people along my way. And maybe a little more modest.

I could have done it with a little more determination and maybe working out once or twice. Come on. Look at my form.

Sunday, according to the weathermen, was supposed to be a crappy, rainy day. It'll be a good idea to rent a movie, curl up with a good book, maybe sleep late, perhaps clean your apartment, sit around and smoke a bowl, they said. Do anything, but don't do it outside, they said. Lies! It turned out to be a beautiful September day in the middle of July.

So I was sitting around wondering what movie to watch, maybe a couple of Simpsons episodes from Season 4. I looked outside and saw a blue sky. Damn you, Sam Champion! You lied to me. My brain has already been predetermined to sit around and do nothing.

But thanks to a rare burst of inspiration to do something (assisted by my roommate and her boyfriend waking up at 4 PM, then deciding to make cooing noises at each other, which led me to believe they wanted to do it), I decided to leave my apartment and head for an unknown destination.

I ended up at the Brooklyn Bridge. On the Brooklyn Bridge. Almost every nice day that I waste, then feel guilty about that night or the next day, I always think, "I shoulda walked over the Brooklyn Bridge!" and I slap my forehead like I'm in a V8 commercial. Yesterday, I finally did it and did not slap my head. So that was nice.

It was a fun little experience. I've always had a theory about New York. And that is the happiest people in New York are the ones that are ice skating at Rockefeller Center around Christmas time. If you ever go there, look down and try to find someone who is upset. They are difficult to locate. I noticed yesterday that people walking on the Bridge are also incredibly happy. But only the people walking. The drivers are a different story.

So I sat there and watched people walking, taking pictures, smiling, pointing, reading plaques, speaking in different languages. At one point I was sitting on this bench and a little girl and her mother sat next to me. The girl was about three and the mother was probably in her late 20's. They spoke Spanish and the little girl kept saying Mommy, which I guess was actually Mami. After they sat there for a while, the girl looked at me and started smiling. She was eating some sour candy from a little white paper bag. That paper bag then became instrumental in a game of peek-a-boo she decided to play with me.

She was adorable and I contemplated kidnapping her. She kept giggling a cute little giggle. I looked up at the mother and noticed she had no interest in playing peek-a-boo with me. She was occasionally covering her eyes though, because she was crying. Weird. She was just sitting there sobbing and wiping away tears. I almost felt obligated to say something to her, maybe ask her if she was OK. We were sharing a bench and I was on the verge of kidnapping her kid, so I felt a bond. She single-handedly destroyed my "Everyone is happy on the Brooklyn Bridge" theory.

She sat there and cried, her daughter giggled behind her bag of candy, I continued to play this riveting game of peeking and booing. I was trying to imagine what she was crying about. I noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so maybe she was frustrated at being a single mom. Was trying to pick me up? I've already demonstrated some amazing parenting skills.

Soon, another little girl walked up to her, said something and pointed and away they went. What bugged me was that the little girl, my new best friend, didn't say "Adios" or even wave to me as she left. Some kids are so rude.

The best part about the bridge is you can spit on all of the pissed off people stuck in traffic.

Speaking of kids, I was also at Union Square where these drummers were drumming, and there was this little kid there, who apparently has no parents.

He was hilarious, running up to all of the drummers and banging on their drums. He also became the money giver. Everyone would give him a dollar and he'd run up and throw it in their bin. At one point, though, he started running away all by himself. He then came back without the assistance of anyone, which made me believe he had no parents, or he is actually a 35-year-old man with a learning disability.

Here he is dancing circles around this little white kid who lacked rhythm.

Then the cops came and busted it up. Don't they have anything better to do!!!?!???!?! There's a lady crying on the Brooklyn Bridge. Go help her!

I just replied to someone at work with a one word response of "Dammit!" It was not recognized by my automatic spell check. Here are some suggestions they gave:


My favorite on this list is Dammar! According to, it is any of various hard resins obtained from trees of the genera Shorea, Balanocarpus, and Hopea, native to southeast Asia and the Malay Archipelago and used in varnishes and lacquers.

If I had changed it to Dammar, I sure would have had a confused email recipient. I also like Dummied!

According to, Dammit is used to express anger, irritation, contempt, or disappointment.

I was feeling all of those when I sent that email. Blogger also doesn't recognize Dammit!


I've been known to drunk dial. I've cut down on it quite a bit recently. Perhaps the novelty wore off. But apparently I now have a new vice -- drunk picture taking.

Yes, with my new camera phone, I can take all of the drunk pictures I want, then wake up the next day and be like, "What the hell?" But rather than wondering what I said to whoever I might have called, I simply wonder why I took a picture of some random person.

For example, I was looking at my phone yesterday and saw this picture of a lady (yes, a lady) on the train. It was taken last Friday night (early Saturday morning).

I have no idea why, nor do I really remember taking this. Perhaps I liked her shiny cheek bones and what I believe is a beret.

What freaks me out in this picture is that guy's face in the distance. Over the shoulder of that other fella. He looks like he is staring into my soul. I don't think he was actually on the train. He might be a ghost. He's like the Three Men and a Baby kid.

I've got nothing for you today, but I suggest you go read Natalie, who is in the midst of a 24 hour blog-a-thon or something. And it's all for charity. If I were a Beastie Boy, I'd say check-a check-a check it out. She's funny and cool and helping out children. That's a lot more that what you've probably done today, isn't it? Gee, help feed starving children or masturbate twice? I think she wins. You make me sick! Here is her first post from this morn. So you can start there. Actually, start here.

So today I gave a guy on the subway a new nickname. I will call this guy, Holy Shit That's My Roommate Jim From College.

I was sitting on the N train making my way to 57th street, when the doors at 34th street opened and in walks one of my college roommates who I have not seen in almost five years. He looks the same. We went to school in South Jersey, so it's not that crazy to run into each other, but it still always blows me away when I randomly meet someone on the street.

As he walked into the train, we both said "Holy shit" at the same time. It was totally bizarre. I was barely awake, but that was like a cup of coffee. It got me excited. Not in a gay way (although, don't get me wrong... Jim and I had some crazy sex). It is just fun to see people you know on the streets of New York, even if it is someone who lives down the block.

My greatest memory of Jim was the day that John Denver died. I know, where were you when he died??? Everyone remembers that one. Anyway, Jim was a big JD fan and would often sing some Rocky Mountain High. It was funny because Jim was a big guy, who had a personality similar to Chris Farley. Very boisterous.

The day Johnny D died, I was sitting in the apartment and heard the door downstairs open. We had a hallway that led up the stairs that would create an echo. Every step up the stairs was loud. So Jim walks through the door and just yells out, "NOOOOOOO!" It was so loud and I started cracking up because I knew what he was upset about. The news about John Denver was a couple of hours old.

He said "No" all the way up the stairs and finally got to the living room and with his eyes in disbelief, he kept yelling, "John Denver is dead, dude!" So we cranked some Thank God I'm a Country Boy and had a beer for our fallen hero.

When I saw Jim this morning, that was the first thing I thought of. I'm happy to report, though, that it seems as if Jim has finally gotten over John's death.

Anyway, I highly recommend running into people from your past. It's always fun. And I was just kidding about the sex that Jim and I had. We only dry-humped.

There are certain people I see on a fairly regular basis during my commute. They often get nicknames from me, although they are never said aloud and the only one who knows the nicknames is me.

For example, there was Tall Redhead Lady. She got this nickname because she was a tall, red-headed lady. I used to see her at around 5:30 in the morning on the subway all the time. Because it was so early might have something to do with the lack of a creative nickname. Anyway, I ended up randomly meeting her at a bar during the blackout and we got drunk together and talked about stuff. She was nice, but totally different than what I expected her to be. She sounded kind of like a kid. She is probably in her late 30's, but has an odd voice. It wasn't high, but sometimes when she would pronounce a word with the letter R, it would sound like a W. Pwonounce. She also told me that early in the morning she likes to keep to herself and read, so I shouldn't be offended when I see her on the subway platform and she doesn't feel like talking. I was fine with this, because I'm not so talkative in the morning either. Or the afternoon or evening for that matter.

So the first time I saw her after that, I nodded to her and waved. She came over and talked my ear off. She talked to me all the time. She was really nice, but I didn't have much to say to her. I think I was just thrown off by how adamant she sounded about not talking to me in the morning, but then talked to me more than I intended. I almost wanted to say, "Hey, remember when you told me you like reading in the morning? You should do more of that. Because I like not talking. And not listening." Anyway, my schedule has changed and I never see her anymore. I kind of miss her.

There is this other lady that I call Sandra Dee. I've only seen her a few times but the first time I noticed her she was wearing this black leather get-up, which closely resembled the outfit Olivia Newton-John wears at the end of Grease when she gets all slutty. What was most shocking about this outfit was she was wearing it on, what was at the time, the most humid day of the year. It was disgusting. This girl is somewhat attractive, but because she is a girl on the subway at 6:30 AM wearing leather, judging by the reactions of every guy on the subway platform, she is the most gorgeous woman in the world. You would have thought Halle Berry, Britney Spears and Beyonce decided to walk naked through the subway together.

While I like to look at pretty girls just as much as the next guy, the reactions of some guys are hilarious. The ones that stop and just stare forever. I'd rather look at these pathetic doofuses and giggle, rather than look at the girl and think, "She's purdy." OK, so perhaps I like to look at pretty girls a little less than the next guy, assuming the next guy is one of those guys who bite their palm like Lenny used to do at the beginning of Laverne & Shirley.

Anyway, while all of these guys were checking out Sandra Dee thinking about what it would be like to have their way with her, I was thinking about how sweaty she must be in all that leather. I was already sweating like my dad and it was about 90 degrees out with 100 percent humidity. All I could think when I saw her was (avert your eyes if you are easily offended or if you are my mom), That girl must have the smelliest vagina in all the land right now.

I'm sorry, but that's the thought that hit me. It just looked so uncomfortable and ridiculous. I saw her this morning and she was dressed much more conservatively and barely got looked at. Poor ugly non-leather gal. So I looked at her and said, "Sandy!?" But she did not say back, "Tell me about it. Stud," and then awkwardly put out her cigarette with the help of Rizzo.

Not sure I had a point to this. I just wanted to write a story which would get people to my site by searching "Sandra Dee smelly vagina."

Mission accomplished.

Every once in a while when someone asks me to do something I feel I shouldn't have to do because I've already done a lot, I want to yell, "I've done my time on Maple Drive!"
The problem is that most people won't get it. There was an old Made for TV movie way back when, starring Jim Carrey who played an alcoholic who returned to his family home. The title of the movie was "Doing Time On Maple Drive." Late in the movie during a pivotal scene, he yells at someone (his mom, I think), "I've done my time on Maple Drive!"
I always thought that was hilarious. I like when movie titles are actual pieces of dialogue. Sometimes they work well: "I'm sending you back... to the future!" And sometimes they are terrible: "I've done my time on Maple Drive!"
Anyway, if I ever tell you that I've done my time on Maple Drive, and then I walk away crying and muttering something about how I like drinking whisky, now you know the reference.

Iran, party of 69,018,924, your war is now ready. Iran, party of 69,018,924.

I would like to write a movie which contains a scene between George W. Bush and Saddam Hussein, in which they gaze into each other's eyes while that Tina Turner song with these lyrics is playing, "I don't really wanna fight, I don't care who's wrong or right. I don't wanna fight no more." Then I think the background singers go, "It's time for letting go." That is when George and Saddam start making out. 
I would be interested to see what an actual meeting between the two would be like. I bet they have a lot of similar interests. Hunting or something. I doubt it would be the rhetoric they both spout out over the airwaves behind their walls of security.
George: You're a bad man.
Saddam: I am Saddam Hussein, President of Iraq. Death to America!
It would be more like this:
George: Hey Saddam. How you doin'?

Saddam: Not bad. You?

George: OK. You know. Election coming up.

Saddam: Oh yes, I know. Good luck. That Kerry doesn't seem so great. You probably have a good shot. You know, I received 100% of the vote in our last election.

George: Oh yeah, I think I read about that somewhere.

Saddam: You know, but then you came here and bombed me and now I don't have much say in the goings on of the country anymore.

George: Right, right. Sorry 'bout that, but I've got a job to do.

Saddam: No, no, no. I don't blame you. You had a lot of pressure. I didn't make it very easy for you.

George: Yeah, you can be one crazy bastard if you put your mind to it, heh heh heh.

Saddam: Guilty as charged, ha ha.

George: Sooo...

Saddam: So.

George: Any plans for the summer?

Saddam: Well, so far just jail and court. And then I'm guessing more prison.

George: Oh, right. Sorry.

Saddam: Don't sweat it. I did it to myself, what with the murders and the torturing.

George: Yeah, that's why I said all that "bad man" stuff.

Saddam: Oh, I know. You were right to accuse me of that. I'm far from perfect. Not worse than Hitler, but still pretty bad.

George: Speaking of worse than Hitler, did you watch Oprah the other day?

Saddam: You are saying Oprah is worse than Hitler?

George: Oh, no no no. She had this special report about men raping babies in South Africa.

Saddam: That's terrible. I didn't see that episode.

George: I didn't either, but I read about it on some guy's blog.

Saddam: Blog?

George: Yeah, it's short for "web log." Kinda like a diary on the internet for people to read. Go to I don't agree with everything he says, especially political, but once in a while it's pretty entertaining.

Saddam: I'll check it out. This fellow a friend of yours?

George: Oh no. I just googled "gigantic boobs" the other day and it took me to his site, which is where I read the Oprah thing.

Saddam: OK, well, I've gotta get back to formulating my defense. It's not easy. I look pretty crazy in a lot of these reports. With good reason, I suppose.

George: All right then. Take care.

Saddam: Say hello to your father for me.

George: Will do.

The other night I could not fall asleep, so I started thinking about a lot of shit. I started to think about a conversation I recently had with my friend Matt, where we were talking about the president. He mentioned something about people calling President Bush worse than Hitler. We both agreed that Hitler was a pretty bad fella and that once you compare the two, you lose a lot of credibility.

Anyway, while I could not fall asleep, I started thinking about things the president could do to make himself worse than Hitler. I was imagining a press conference where he dismisses any such allegations, but then slips up and admits to doing something even worse. So I was thinking about the worst thing you could possibly do as a human being and came up with this:

Reporter: Mr. President, can you address the issue of people comparing you to Hitler?

President Bush: I think it's ridiculous this question is even brought up. It's insulting. Hitler was a bad man. Worse than Saddam Hussein. This press conference is over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go rape some babies.

(Horrified gasps echo throughout the room.)

As I was lying there, I thought, That's a pretty fucked up thought, even for me. Yet, having the president say that would be somewhat amusing. And then I thought, No one rapes babies.

So yesterday I didn't go to work on account of my not sleeping and feeling like crap, so I got to watch a little Oprah. The first story they mention is about a wave of baby raping in South Africa. What are the chances? I watched a little of it and, as you can probably imagine, it was horrendous. Apparently, some witch doctors down there have told people that you can get rid of HIV if you have sex with a virgin. So these disease-ridden fucks are not taking any chances with who may or may not be a virgin, and going right after babies. It was a horrible story
And apparently the political leaders in South Africa are reticent to speak out against it because they are afraid of the stigma it will bring upon their country. First Apartheid, now baby raping. What a fine history.

In conclusion. George Bush is not worse than Hitler. He does not rape babies. Some people do rape babies. They are worse than Hitler.

So this lady, who is a friend of my aunt, goes up to my mom at my grandfather's funeral and says, "You poor thing. Now you have no one."

My mother, somewhat taken aback by such a silly comment says, "Well, I guess I'm now an orphan."

Good one, mom.

Who the hell says that? Yes, you poor thing. All you have left are your three kids, your husband, two brothers, lots of friends, a cat... OK, so maybe not the cat anymore. But sheesh.

Funerals and wakes are weird. No one ever really knows what to say. I think there needs to be a new word invented for people offering condolences. Saying "I'm sorry" is kind of weird. You are not responisble. I never like saying that to people and I never really know what to say back, because I feel that saying "Thank you" is also an odd response.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

Doesn't make sense. I would much prefer:

"Dude, sucks about your _______."

"Yeah, no shit."

But definitely not, "Now you have no one." I think on the list of sensitive things to say at a funeral, that one ranks quite low.

Anyway. Another funny thing I remembered my grandfather saying was back during the election of 2000 when we still didn't know who our president was going to be. I asked him, "What do you think about this whole election thing? Pretty crazy, huh?" He looked at me, shrugged, and said, "What am I going to do? Fight City Hall?"

I guess once you get past 90, you're allowed to not give a shit about the world anymore. Another topic of conversation was how amazing it is that he lived for twelve years after his wife died. Usually, when you are that old, it's only a matter of a year or so before the spouse dies. My grandmother was quite a whirlwind. My theory was that grandpa just needed some alone time.

In other news, my friend Jay had a party on Friday night. He is back from Iraq, alive and well which was a good cause to celebrate. He informed me that Iraqis love anal sex and kiddie porn. The sex thing is because of the religious ramifications of having real sex before you are married. Anal is apparently a loophole. And as far as the kiddie porn, I really can't help you out there. But now that there is freedom and a democracy, kiddie porn is all the rage.

Thank you, President Bush! Let freedom ring!

In other other news, is Rick Santorum the biggest douchebag in all the land? I'm pretty sure he is. Read this quote regarding gay marriage:

"I would argue that the future of our country hangs in the balance because the future of marriage hangs in the balance," said Sen. Rick Santorum, a leader in the fight to approve the measure. "Isn't that the ultimate homeland security, standing up and defending marriage?"

I don't know. Is that the ultimate homeland security? Could a gay marriage ban have prevented 9/11? Perhaps the passengers on the hijacked planes would have said, "Hey, I know we may regret doing this, but whaddaya say we attack these terrorists? If we don't do it for our families and to save the lives of thousands, let's do it in the name of gay marriage! Anti gay marriage of course!"

Stupid gay terrorists.

My grandfather died on Friday night. Ninety-six years old. All of his years were good ones up until this last one. Some dementia. Quite possibly the nicest man I've ever known. I know it's commonplace for people to exaggerate someone's qualities after they've died, but I can honestly say I don't think I've ever heard anyone say a bad thing about the man. If anything, he was too nice.

About a month ago he went into the hospital and he looked very uncomfortable and I assumed it'd be the last time I'd see him. So I stayed in his room a little longer than I had planned. I didn't want to leave. Once I finally did leave, I said goodbye to him, and he, not really sure of who I was, extended his hand to shake my hand goodbye. And I thought, Here is a man who is on what appears to be the verge of death, and he still has the courtesy to shake my hand. He said, "So long" and I left.

He actually got better in the next few days and hung on until the other night.

On his 90th birthday, we had a surprise party for him. Lots of people he hadn't seen in quite some time were there. Towards the end of the day, I was talking to him and asked him if he was having a good day. Always one to understate, he said, "Well, I didn't think it would be this big but it happened and that's it."

He wasn't one to philosophize. He would say that a lot... It happened and that's it. I liked that. Nice and simple.

The hardest thing about the last year or so was that he was still aware he wasn't in good health. While his mind wasn't entirely all there, he would still say things like, "I'm not so good no more" and just last week he said, "I'm just sitting here doing nothing." He wasn't some kind of loopy old person talking crazy. He still knew what was what, even though he didn't necessarily know who was who.

One of my favorite things about him was that he would always say, "So long." And he'd tell us to not say goodbye. I think maybe Bon Jovi stole "Never Say Goodbye" from my grandfather. Or maybe my grandfather was a big Jovi fan.

Anyway, I'll miss him but I'm glad he is no longer lying down knowing he's not healthy. I'm happy that he can see his wife again after 12 years. I think if you asked him today what he thought about his life, he'd probably say, "Well, I didn't think it would be this big but it happened and that's it."

Indeed. So long, Grandpa.

Remember those writing tests you used to have to take in elementary school? I speak of the ones where the teacher would read about ten sentences (one at a time), and you'd have to write down each sentence.

For example, she might say, "The dog can't fit in the car, so someone will have to watch him when we go on vacation." Simple sentences and they just want to make sure you have basic writing skills.

My third grade teacher, Mrs. Swanek was an old miserable little woman. She gave us a lot of these tests. When she was absent, her daughter, Miss Swanek, would often be the substitute. She wasn't the smartest lady in the world, if you know what I mean. She wasn't all there, if you know what I mean. She was half off the cover price, if you know what I mean. She was kind of retarded, if you know what I mean.

So one day she was giving us this test. Sentences 1 through 5 were standard sentences. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then question Number Six came and changed my world forever. I remember to this day that it was Number Six.

Here was sentence Number Six:

6. Go shake Dick and wake him up.

Giggles ensue. I'm kind of surprised now that we understood the hilarity in that sentence. All of the sentences were repeated once during the test, so again, Miss Swanek said, "Go shake Dick and wake him up." Someone (one of the boys) said, "Can you repeat that?"

Go shake Dick and wake him up.

Someone else raises their hand. "Can you repeat that again?"

Go shake Dick and wake him up.

We finally moved on to number 7. At the end of the test, Miss Swanek asked, "Do you need me to repeat any of the sentences?"

Two boys immediately said, "Number Six."

Go shake Dick and wake him up.

Then another asked.

Go shake Dick and wake him up.

She never really caught on. But she was thinking we were a bunch of idiots. It was probably the easiest sentence on the test. She started to get kind of condescending and upset that we couldn't grasp this one simple sentence.

Go shake Dick and wake him up.

Finally, little Jessica Henderson said, "You don't have to keep saying it. They're just being disgusting."

I don't think Miss Swanek knew what was disgusting about it. But man, that was some funny shit. Sometimes I miss third grade.

Go shake Dick and wake him up.

It amazes me how people don't pay much attention to WALK/DON'T WALK signs. They just follow the crowd. Oftentimes, a person who is in a rush will walk as soon as they see ten feet between oncoming cars. Those who are not paying attention will sometimes follow that person until they realize they are about to get hit by a car or until someone in their party grabs them.

Today, there was a fairly large break in the traffic and this slow moving guy started following the quick moving people. He saw a van fast approaching and started to jog out of the way. The driver of the van who had his window down, looked at the careless walker and said, "No. Don't run. Just stand right there. Faggot."

Well, the "faggot" line was quite unnecessary, but it was funny. Only because there was nothing about the walking guy that made him appear to be gay. He was a pretty old guy dressed conservatively. He wasn't sashaying with some fancy new feather boa. He was just an idiot who didn't follow the signs. What was funny was the way the driver was so calm about it. He wasn't very pissed or hateful. Quite calm.

A few years ago during the Christmas season of 2001, there was a woman who was talking on her cell phone and about to get creamed by a truck. A cop who was at the intersection grabbed her by her hood and pulled her back. As soon as he grabbed her, she was like, "What the fuck!?!?" Then the cop said, "You almost got hit by that truck." She replied back, "I fucking did not. What the fuck?" Then she bitchily walked across the street and said to the person on the phone, "This fucking cop just grabbed me."

Merry Christmas, bitch! Maybe she was Jewish and wasn't into all of the Christmas shit. Got her in a bad mood. It was close to Rockefeller Center. Or maybe she was just a horrid bitch. Keep in mind this was still pretty close to 9/11 and people were still in their, "Every fireman and cop is a hero!" mode. So she got lots of dirty looks. I said to the cop, "Shoulda let her keep walking." He looked at me and said, "Heroes don't discriminate."

Just kidding. He didn't say that. He just chuckled.

So if you are coming to the city, please pay close attention to the traffic and pedestrian signals. For if you don't, some dickhead cop might try to save your life.

I know it's boring to talk about dreams, but this one might make me my millions.

Today at work, someone started talking about "that girl from Charles In Charge." Someone said Nicole Eggert. As soon as I heard the Charles In Charge talk, my brains started throwing all of these images at me, and all of the sudden I was thinking, Why do I have these bizarre distinct memories of talking to Scott Baio?

Then it hit me. Last night I dreamt that I approached Willie Aames about doing a spin-off of Charles In Charge, where the main character would be Buddy Lembeck. For some reason, we were on the set of Charles, and the entire cast was there, including the not hot sister of Nicole Eggert.

Anyway, Willie Aames didn't even remember his character from the show so it was going to take some convincing. I remember Scott Baio telling him that it was a great idea and he should do it.

The premise of the show was that Buddy was going to be a lawyer. That's all I really remember, but on my lunch break I thought of a few more details.

First thing you might ask is, "Buddy was a dummy. How can he be a lawyer?" Well, due to a paperwork mishap, Buddy passes the Bar Exam with flying colors and opens up his own practice. The man whose paperwork got confused with Buddy's, Reginald Fertabagular III, now makes it his life's work to bring down Buddy and his law firm, which Buddy calls Lembeck, Lembeck & Buddy.

So now Buddy has a rival. Reginald eventually does pass the Bar Exam and opens up his own law firm which tries to steal all of Buddy's clients.

Buddy wins all of his cases by pure dumb luck. He will say something in the middle of a trial which has nothing to do with the case, but then something will trigger in his brain and he will win the case.

For example, during a high profile murder case in which is client is wrongly accused of killing his wife, Buddy says to a bailiff, "You think you could rustle me up some peanuts?"

Then Buddy snaps and thinks, "Wait! Peanuts! That's just it! It would have been impossible for my client to be guilty because he loves peanuts!"

I'm not sure how that works, but you get the idea. This show would be unprecedented in that it is unheard of for a spin-off to not begin until 14 years after a show has been cancelled. And one that was created in a dream.

Willie Aames, your time is now! You haven't worked in years. Just look at your imdb profile. Call me.

Hello and welcome to the Mike Toole Finally Gets a Haircut pre-game show. It's been about four months since Mike's last haircut and he's decided it is time.

I spoke with Mike beforehand and he told me that it was a matter of his hair just getting too long and unruly. Plus, with the heat of summer bearing down, a thick head of hair isn't advisable for anyone.

Anyway, Mike is about to walk into the barber shop, which is located in the subway station at Columbus Circle. Let's go in and watch the action.

He gets right in there and it looks like the barber is a new guy.

He certainly is, Bob. I have not seen him before and do not have a scouting report on him. And you can tell, Mike is nervous right off the bat.

That's not a very good indicator of anything, though, Jack. As you know, Mike gets nervous every time he gets his hair cut.

Right you are Bob. He gets as nervous as Strom Thurmond in a Harlem gay bar.

The man is dead, Jack. Leave him be.

I just made that up.

It would have been funny ten years ago. Anyway, Mike is now draped in the protective barber cape and engaging in some small talk. As you know, Mike hates small talk, especially while getting a haircut.

That's right Bob. He feels they have a very serious job to do and should concentrate on the task at hand. And the fact that most of these barbers aren't good at speaking English, he feels that the conversation isn't going to get that far anyway. Whoa! I'm not much of a lip reader, but I think he just said, "I'm a fag. What are you?"

Um, I think he said, "Not bad. How are you?"

That would make more sense, Bob. Good lip readin'!

Thank you. OK, Mike is describing what he wants. As usual, it's a vague description and it's more of a mumble as he points to random parts of his head. I find it hard for Mike to complain about bad haircuts, especially when he never really gives a good description of what he wants.

He's not asking for a mohawk, Bob. It's pretty straightforward. Give the guy a nice haircut. Plain and simple.

OK. And the barber goes straight for the clippers, you know the little buzzing thing. And a look of dread streaks across Mike's face.

I think he's afraid they are going to cut off too much. He shouldn't have much to worry about, as the clippers are on a fairly high setting. It is a bit unsettling these days how reliant barbers are on clippers.

He settles back in as the barber cuts off quite a few chunks of hair. Now let's go to Mike's brain to see what he's actually thinking:

Oh, Christ. Go easy you big Russian. OW! You've got big hands, dude. Just ask me to turn my head and I'll turn it. Sheesh. Yaaaaa... not too much please. When is Christina's wedding? August. OK. If he does a bad job, I've still got over a month to grow this back. She'd kill me if I got a bad haircut. Oh, fuck! What is he doing? That will never even out. Wait... breathe... calm down. This happens all the time. You get all freaked out, but most of the time it ends up, if not great, at least OK. Just chill out.

So a little more insight to Mike as he gets his hair clipped here. Jack, what surprises you most about what we just heard from Mike's thoughts? Was it the fact that he cares so much about what he'll look like at his sister's wedding?

Well, Bob, that's hardly very surprising. What is shocking to me is that he still says "Chill out."

Shocking indeed, Jack.

He also thinks way too much. It's just a haircut, you pussy!

Easy Jack.

Sorry Bob.

Well, it looks like the cut is wrapping up.

Whoa, that's a lot of talc he just put on there.

It sure is. If I know Mike as well as I think I do, he's going to hate that. Let's go down for an interview.

Hi Mike. Bob and Jack here. How's it going?

Not so bad, guys.

Well, that's a good sign. So you are happy with your hair cut?

Right now it doesn't look so bad. You never know, but I think this is a good one. I was a little nervous going in, especially because it was a new barber. And I noticed halfway through that he didn't have an official barber certificate or whatever they are. That made me a little concerned.

Mike, we noticed that you were sweating a bit. What makes you so nervous?

Well, first, it's pretty hot down here. I was already sweating when I came in, because I had a long sleeve shirt on. But I probably did start sweating a little when I thought he was shaving off the back of my head. Turns out it was just my imagination, but I could have sworn he was ridding me completely of my hair.

What's next for you Mike?

Well, I'm going to go ride home on the subway, which I also hate right now. It's rush hour and I've got little itchy pieces of hair falling down my back. And I've got that, "That dude just got a haircut" look about me. I'm always worried I've got a clump of hair in my ear or something. Once I get home, I'll take a shower and see what happens. I think it's a good cut. The worst part about a good cut, though, is that it will never look better than it does on the day of the cut.

Right you are, Mike. Good luck with your hair and I hope everything works out with your sister's wedding.

Thanks, guys.

Join us tomorrow when Mike is scheduled to do his laundry. Of course, this is subject to change and it's possible Mike will just go out and buy new socks, rather than actually do his laundry.

This haircut has been brought to you in part by Modell's. You gotta got to Mo's. Also by Foxwoods Resort Hotel & Casino. Foxwoods -- The wonder of it all.

I sure hope Dick Gephardt doesn't get the NY Post delivered to him in Missouri. He was probably patiently waiting by the phone anticipating the call, family gathered round.

Wait, does this mean the back page is wrong as well and the Mets DID win last night and are only a game back of the Phillies? Sweet!

Dear NY Post. Please go back to what you are good at. Bashing France and gossiping about Paris Hilton. And only being a quarter. I guess that's what 25 cents buys for you these days. Shoddy reporting and the most biased rag in town.

Hmmm. I wonder what will be on the cover of the Daily News tomorrow... You think they'll mention this?

I am a Grumpy Guy today. I hate Mondays, even when they fall on Tuesdays. I hate the fact that I am now a person that hates Mondays. You know? I used to hate those people. People that talk about it being Monday. I still hate them. I have a lot of hate to give.

I hate that song that goes, I don't like Mondays. Tell me why!

Aside from maybe seven days of humidity, this spring/summer has been quite Autumnal. Maybe it's because my office has been a consistent 62 degrees for the last 2 years. I don't know. I feel like it's September. Which means my birthday is just around the corner. Awesome. Hopefully it'll be like my last birthday where I got drunk and stole a giant inflatable Heineken football from a bar with the help of my pal Greg. We then ran out of this bar with the football for a few blocks, then I realized I had no use for a football this size, especially an inflatable one. So I gave it to a four-year-old kid who was getting into a car with his parents. He was excited to get this football, which was bigger than he. His parents were not as excited.

Parents of four-year-olds receiving alcoholic paraphernalia from drunk people on the streets of New York are so uptight these days.

Just kidding, Dick. I picked Edwards. You've been Crank-Yanked!

I, a Mets fan, last night was at the Yankees vs. Red Sox game.

I've made my hatred for the Yankees fairly well known, but last night was one of those games where I was very jealous for not being a Yankees fan. It was an amazing game and all of you people who booed Derek Jeter earlier in the year during his slump, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. If you ever boo that guy again, you should throw yourself in front of the 4 train. His catch last night was great.

In the bottom of the 13th inning, a Red Sox fan stood in front of us. With two outs and nobody on, the Red Sox up by one, she turned around and confidently high-fived another Sox fan. I thought to myself, That's it. You just jinxed it, lady. Game over. Three hits later, Yankee Stadium was insane. You would have thought they not only won the World Series, but also cured cancer and achieved world peace.

I don't much care for Yankee fans (see idiots below), but there was one guy who yelled something awesome. When Pokey Reese, who plays for the Red Sox got up to bat, some guy behind me yelled, "Pokey is NOT a first name!" That made me laugh.

I like when people yell from the outfield to players who are batting. Not just, "Come on, fella! Get a hit!" But when they say specific things. Someone yelled something like "Manny's an asshole (clap clap clapclapclap)!" A better chant would have been, "You can't hear this ((clap clap clapclapclap)!"

Anyway, I took lots of photos with my phone. Perhaps one day I'll put them all on here, but I won't. Here are just a few.

In case you were wondering what an 8 dollar beer looks like, wonder no more! Behold!

This is Bill. He likes hot dogs.

These jerks wear chef hats. Because they like Gary Sheffield. Get it? Chef hats. Sheffield. Brilliant, right? They also did the "We're not worthy" thing a few times. Sports fans are sometimes the most clever people in the world.

This is a photo of what it's like to be a Yankee fan...

And here is a Red Sox fan. Perfect.

And here is a picture of a Mets fan with a camera phone.

Here is some random crap I will type.

Today is Thursday, July 1. This has been an incredibly long week for some reason. Both yesterday and today, I have woken up and gone to grab my jeans thinking, "Sweet! Casual Friday is here!" And then I realize I'm wrong. I cry in the tub for about 8 minutes and then I get ready.

I need a haircut.

One time there was this baby on the train. He was black. He was smiling and making faces at a black man on the train. That guy got off the train, so now the baby was looking at me. He stopped smiling and was making mean faces at me. And I think at one point he even gave me the finger. This baby was barely a year old, but I am pretty sure was a racist. No one likes a racist baby, I thought. Except for racists, I suppose. Anyway, it gave me an idea for a TV show called Racist Baby. I'm not sure if this will be a comedy or a drama. Perhaps a dramedy.

Last night I had a dream that it was the end of the world. Everyone was pretty calm and tying up loose ends. I don't remember the specific ending, but it began by the oceans drying out. I also remember thinking that it wasn't an interesting date for the world to end. You know, like January 1st is a good day to die. But this was just in the middle of some random month. And people were packing. Don't know why. We couldn't go anywhere. This dream was inspired by the 6:30 episode of The Simpsons yesterday. The one with the comet.

Someone got to my site by searching, "how many superballs have the 49ers won". I know they've won 5 Super Bowls, but as far as super balls, I don't know. The give you a trophy and a ring when you win the Super Bowl, but not a super ball. Maybe if things got bad for the league financially, they'd do that.

Speaking of sports, the Bush administration kind of reminds me of the Yankees. I had a good way to describe this the other day, but now I can't. I hate when that happens. When you have a good idea but then can't remember what made it a good idea. One time in college I was kind of high and I thought of something that would be a good children's story. I wrote a few things down before I went to bed, then woke up the next day and was like, "What? Why did I write down 'stork and donkey'?"

I am going to the Yankee game tonight. I will be sitting near the right field fair pole. I might get drunk and try to attack Gary Sheffield. Watch SportsCenter.

I used to think people that called it the "fair pole" were being snooty. But it's true. Why is it a foul pole? If the ball hits it, it's fair.

If you'd like a lesson in how comedic timing is essential, watch Arrested Development on Sunday nights. This is quite possibly the funniest show on television right now. And so far, Fox has not renewed it. They'd better. Jerks.

I really need a haircut.

It's funny how the only two pictures of Saddam that the media seemed to to have up until now is the bearded one where he looks like Santa, and this one.

Here is your feared dictator. He looks like a regular guy in a Members Only jacket. In this photo, rather than a man guilty of atrocities such as mass murder and torture, he looks like a guy you'd see on the side of the road who locked his keys in his car and he's waiting for AAA.

He doesn't have the look of, "Fuck, I am going to be hanged for this shit." It's more like, "I don't know what happened. I went out to take a pee, came back to the car and boom. There's the keys right there in the ignition. Guess I'm just used to hitting the lock button."

Anyway Saddam, good luck with your upcoming trial. And when I say "Good luck," what I mean is "Enjoy dying."
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006