I just did something I swore I would never do. I dropped my laundry off at the laundromat and left it there for them to do. When I pick it up, I will pay them for it and say "Thank you." To tell you why I thought I'd never do this, I will conduct an interview with myself.

INTERVIEW WITH MIKE TOOLE AND WHY HE THOUGHT HE'D NEVER HAVE SOMEONE ELSE DO HIS LAUNDRY

by mike toole

So Mike, why did you swear you would never do this?

Good question. I just always thought it was lazy.

But Mike, you are one of that laziest people I know.

True, true. But laundry is probably the only household chore I am good at. My mother taught me how to do my own laundry at a pretty young age (as far as laundry is concerned).

What age was that?

I'm not exactly sure, but it was probably when I was in eighth or ninth grade. I didn't know many other kids that did their own laundry. Someone would be like, "Aww, man, my sheets are all dirty! Guess I'll have to wait for my mom to wash them before I can sleep." And I'd be all, "Fuck that! I'll wash your fuckin' sheets!" They'd be like, "You can do that?" And I'd be all, "Fuck yeah, I can do that. Now where's your moms keep the fucking Tide?!"

You had quite a mouth on you.

I might be paraphrasing.

So how do you feel now that you dropped your laundry off?

I'm a little nervous. I'm afraid they'll shrink something or lose something. I also feel kind of weird about someone else messing with my underwear. And I'm a little embarrassed about some of the boxer shorts I own.

Like?

Well, remember that Grinch movie with Jim Carrey?

Yes.

I think it is the worst movie of all time.

What does this have to do with under--

Let me finish.

Sorry.

So, I was out at a bar once with my sister and a friend of hers, and the friend said she liked the movie. Well, I went kind of nuts, explaining why it was awful and why it should be banned from the planet. My sister said she never saw me so passionate over something. She also told me later that her friend said I kind of ruined the movie for her.

You showed her the light?

I suppose. Anyway, this was right before Christmas, so what does my sister buy me for Christmas? Grinch boxers. They are these purple sort of boxers with the Grinch all over them, and they look kind of silly. I never thought I'd wear them, but of course, being that I'm all lazy, whenever I get down to that last pair, there's the Grinch who stole Christmas staring back at me. So now, some dude or lady is probably laughing uncontrollably at my underwear and showing it off to the entire laundromat.

You really think that's happening? Like, they've never seen something like that before?

I don't know. I suppose not. But it's like when a parent drops off their kid at school for the first time. You worry about every little thing.

You are comparing your underwear and socks to someone's offspring.

Yes.

That's fucking stupid.

True.

Ok then.

Sooo, the interview is over?

I guess.

Unless you have anything else to add.

Wasn't I the one asking the questions?

I don't know. I forget who is who.

Shouldn't it be whom is whom?

What? No way. Is it? I don't know.

I think they should get rid of the word "whom", you know? No one ever really uses it, and when they do, it still sounds like it might be wrong.

Maybe you should start a campaign to end it.

Nah.

Why not?

Fucking lazy.

Good point. Me too. I'm going to take a nap.

Wait up. I'll join you.

I find it amusing that Coors Light, the beer for those that want to get fucked up, but Natural Light is beneath them, is hawking the fact that their beer is really cold. The commercial talks about how the beer is shipped cold, so it's always cold on its travels, and when it finally gets to you -- Joe Alcoholic -- they claim it is the best tasting it can be. This supposedly eliminates "skunky" beer.

They aren't going on taste. It's just cold. They say in the ad that it strives to be the coldest tasting beer. Can you taste "cold"? I'm pretty sure it should be the coldest feeling beer. And liquids, especially alcohol, lose taste when they are really cold. So Coors Beer, by shipping their beer via glacier, is hiding the fact from you that it actually has no taste. Which, depending on your goal of the evening, can be a good thing.

Coors Light. It's the coldest!

My favorite song about birthdays is by Loudon Wainwright. It is called The Birthday Present. While it's not a rocking, "You say it's your birthday!" kind of song, I think it's a nice little reflection on life by a 46-year-old guy. I hope that when I am up past 40, I am not one of those people that regrets things, is embarrassed about there age, or hates anything younger than they are. I would like to have the attitude that Mr. Wainwright has -- Here I am. In the shape I'm in.

Anyway, happy birthday to me, Little Miles, Avril Lavigne, Meat Loaf and Cheryl Tiegs.

And a special thanks to my mom for being kind enough to carry me around for nine months and so I could develop into the fellow I am today. I hope it was worth the swollen ankles.

The Birthday Present

I've heard that I'm ageless,
And my soul is eternal.
And I have lived a thousand lives and will live many more.
On Saturday, it's my birthday.
Looks like I'll probably make it.
To 46 -- that's not that old,
though it's not 24.
And I know that this thinning gray hair
is a sign of wisdom.
This sagging skin and these loose teeth prove
I have been around.
On Saturday, we will recall that day back in the forties,
when I was born bald, with no teeth and weighed just a few pounds.
And I know that in merely four years, I'll be hitting fifty.
That ripe young age, that halfway point
when life really begins.
But Saturday, let's celebrate neither the past nor future,
but the present.
Here I am. In the shape I'm in.

I am sitting here wanting to write, but I can't think of anything to write. Well, that's not true. I feel like I am on the brink of writing something meaningful and/or brilliant, and it just needs a little push, but nothing is coming out.

I am currently feeling that melancholy feeling that sets in on a Sunday night. The realization that I have to go to work tomorrow. The realization that I should have done laundry a week and a half ago. The realization that I just don't want to go to sleep, for then I'll be admitting my weekend is over.

'Twas a fun weekend. I went out with co-workers, who make for some pretty fun friends, on Friday. There was drinking, way too much of it. I think I acted like an idiot, and the next day when I asked someone else for confirmation of that, they confirmed, but reassured, "We were all idiots."

Well, good. On Saturday I went to the Mets game and saw the Mets win a game they had no business winning. It was a poor effort up until the ninth inning, and then once more in the eleventh. I got to see Craig Brazell hit a walk-off home run. Yes, the Craig Brazell.

While it's no secret that Shea Stadium is a dump, it takes on a new kind of gloom when the Mets are as bad as they are, such as this year. There were more Cubs fans than Mets fans, and those Mets fans that were in attendance, really couldn't give a damn, myself included. It was fun to see them win, but that stadium just looked sad. Tear it down. Tear down the Mets. Let's start anew.

It was also quite sad to see what stats they would put on the scoreboard when certain Mets were at bat. Usually, when a player is batting, they put a piece of info on the scoreboard. For example, if it were a Yankees game, the scoreboard would read something like, "Gary Sheffield has batted .421 over his last 18 games" or "Hideki Matsui has hit safely in his last 13 games" or "Derek Jeter has a 21 game hitting streak, and last night saved a baby from a fire."

With the Mets, they were really reaching for stats. There was one that said "Gerald Williams has hit safely in 3 of his last four games." Wow! I was expecting the next time he was at bat for the scoreboard to say, "Gerald Williams drives a Saab."

What else can I say about the weekend? Oh, there was one thing that was quite upsetting. I went out to Bull McCabe's down there on St. Mark's. I used to go there a bit more frequently. The first time I was there, the bartender, who resembled Drew Carey, right down to the glasses, bought about five pizzas for the entire bar. It was one of the cooler things I've seen a barkeep do. Anyway, I asked someone at the bar if he still worked there, and he replied, "He died." Damn. Guy seemed pretty young and apparently died of heart failure. Weird. One of the last times I was there, he was telling me that he was driving out to Michigan to visit his mom. That made me sad, thinking that his mom was probably awfully sad. My sadness lasted for a few minutes, and then someone said, "Hey, let me buy you a shot."

Lots of people bought me birthday shots this weekend. That was nice. My birthday seems to have stretched out for the entire weekend. It was kind of like a Thanksgiving weekend. So now I am sure my actual birthday might be a bit of a letdown. Especially because I'll be at work and very few people buy me shots when I'm in the office.

I am off to sleep. Here is what Shea Stadium looks like when it's sad.

This Monday, I will be older. Well, technically we all get older with every speck of time that goes by, but this Monday is an official day. I am very not excited. Birthdays on a Monday are no fun. I was going to plan something this weekend, but that didn't happen. So it looks like I'm getting drunk in my underwear. The same thing I did on my 8th birthday.

In celebration of my years, here is a photo from when I was a young boy, stupider than now, though not by much, being tricked into believing this was the real Incredible Hulk. It looks like this picture was taken in some abandoned brickyard or something where we just happened to run into a guy dressed up as The Hulk, but it was actually a fair. I don't recall what fair it was, whether it be state, county, town, or The Old Abandoned Brickyard Fair, but I remember it kind of sucking.

I really like The Hulk's green 'fro. Outta sight.

The other day John Kerry introduced his plan to fix Iraq. It was immediately called "weak" by his opponents, which I tend to agree with. "Provide better training for Iraqi security forces." Well, no duh. If they can just get them trained and not all blowed up while they are waiting on line to apply, I think we'd be off to a good start.

Anyway, this got me thinking that maybe I should share my own plan to fix Iraq. I call it, Operation: Problem Solved!

Rather than bore you with it here, you can just click on this link.

So here I am at my still new home in Queens and after almost three years of living in the dark, today I have cable. Yes, cable. I haven't had it since I moved to the city. Full blown cable. HBO. Some other movie channels. Whatever. Cable!

I also have high speed internet. The fastest internet in all the land. Sometimes I think that having the internet at home is no big deal, mainly because I sit in front of a computer all day at work and have the internet at my disposal, and have found myself sitting there staring at the internet thinking I've run out of things to read. But then I realize that it's nice to be able to do whatever and not have to worry about checking emails from work and getting shit from some asshole.

I hate shit from assholes!

Not that I work with a lot of assholes. It's just nice to know that here at home I am away from all things work. Except for Doug.

Speaking of assholes, last night I woke up at some point in the overnight and heard a cop speaking on his... what is it, a bullhorn? Whatever it is in their car that makes their voices louder. Why can't I think of the word? Let's call it the voice loudener. So he's on the voice loudener saying, "Step away from the vehicle. Put your hands where I can see them. Where I can see them!!!"

Luckily I don't have one of those little kid beds in the shape of a car, because I could have been mighty confused in my middle of the night REM mode. I don't know what happened with the cop and the guy. I never heard a resolution. I hope it worked out for the both of them.

Speaking of it working out for both of them, I am going to see my one true love in a couple of short weeks. Colorado. I needed to go on a vacation and the lovely people at JetBlue have decided to fly me non-stop out to Denver for less than $200. From there I will rent a car and visit my friend Dave in Telluride. I am accepting any and all recommendations on places to stop on the way (I will have about two days or so for the drive, even though it should only take about 9 hours according to MapQuest... I'm going to stretch it out). So if you know of things in Colorado that a boy should see, let me know. Things like: this great little out of the way restaurant that's run by a little old lady; or this lake in the middle of nowhere that no one knows about; or this mountain that kind of looks like a vagina and would be a funny picture to have. Things like that.

OK. I'm going to go see what is on television. Cable television. I'm probably setting myself up for disappointment. The last time I had HBO, I was in college and I watched Muppets Take Manhattan way too many times. I'd be kind of drunk or high and wait for the part with Ed Koch to come on. That shit always cracked me up. It was all about Koch's delivery.

Gonzo: Mr. Mayor! Mr. Mayor, I'm looking for a frog who can sing and dance!

The Honorable Edward I. Koch: If he can balance the budget, I'll hire him!

So yesterday I could have punched John Kerry in the face. And right after I did that, I could have gotten the shit beat out of me by the Secret Service.

As you probably know, Kerry was on the Letterman show last night. As I was leaving work, his motorcade had just pulled up. I saw it from my office window and tried to race downstairs. I had my real camera on me, so I hoped to get some good shots. I got there and he was already inside, so I hung outside the Ed Sullivan Theatre for a while. I ended up staying way longer than I wanted to.

After a long wait, John was done with the show and came out. There were a lot of people yelling and hoping he'd come over to shake hands. Earlier in the day, my battery light on my camera said it was full. About 20 minutes before he came out, it was flashing, which indicates that the shit is about to die. So when John came out, it didn't appear that he was going to come over to the crowd, so I snapped a few shots from across the street. Next thing I know, John Kerry's big fucking doofy ass head is less than a foot from mine.

I was trying to take a picture, but the camera was officially dead. I was so pissed. I wasted battery life earlier because I didn't think it was an issue. So I tried using my camera phone. I was holding it up right in front of his face. He went to shake my hand, but I was like, "I got a camera in one hand and a phone in the other. Me no shaky hand." I snapped a picture with my camera phone, but then this Secret Service guy who was pushing any hands away that had things in them (people had things like pens to try and get autographs), grabbed my phone and snapped it shut.

You dick!

So that was that photo. I did get some other photos that are OK, but nothing like what I could have gotten if I had just preserved that damn battery. This was way more frustrating than missing the snowboarder fall.

He was thisclose to me. I could have punched him or slapped him or licked him or head-butted him or pulled his hair or did that thing where you go "got your nose" when in reality it would just be my own thumb but I'd pretend it was his nose or I could have done that thing where I say "What's this?" and then I put my hand behind is ear and make it look like I pulled a quarter or a nickel from behind is ear.

But I didn't. Stupid Secret Service. Those guys take their jobs way too seriously. I was like, "Dudes, why do you care so much? It's not like he's the president. He's only running for president. Big difference, assholes."

Here are some photos.

Here are just some people waiting, showing off their ability to hold up signs. That lady in the middle looks very disappointed in me.

This one is of a very annoying lady who pushed her way right up to me and squeezed her chunky butt next to mine. At one point, when we were waiting, a guy came out on the street who was under 6 feet tall, about 35-years-old, and had incredibly dark hair. This lady yells, "There he is! That's him!" Someone else said, "Where?" She said, "Right there, right? Isn't that him? With the... never mind." Sorry lady. You can see my sleeve on the right. We were visions in blue.

Here is the obligatory baby photo. Cute kid, cute sign, you better believe John Kerry picked that baby up.

This is of a car that some Secret Service guys sat in and ate pizza. It was idling for about 30 minutes. I would say that is bad environmental policy. This photo also represents more battery life wasted on a stupid photo.

Here is Mr. Kerry just as he got out of the studio. You can see him in the back there. More importantly, the guy in the foreground with the red tie is the guy who closed my phone. He has a firm grip.

Here is a shitty picture.

And finally, this is just about the only decent photo I got, which happened to be my last. You can see the possible future president picking up the baby.

There were a lot of assholes there. Every once in a while, someone would walk through the crowd and say "four more years" or something, and this one guy would just go nuts. He'd start yelling at them, "Murderer! Murderer! Why aren't you in Iraq?!?! Murderer!" Great way to get your point across.

Let's just say, for the sake of this guy, that George Bush is a murderer, which would then make every other president who has waged war a murderer. That doesn't make the people that support him murderers. Like my dad, for example. He likes Bush, but is not a murderer. It would be like a Bush supporter yelling at me, "Windsurfer! Windsurfer! Windsurfer!" You don't automatically take on the qualities of those you support.

I think I had more to say about crap that happened yesterday, but I'm going home now. Oh, here are some hilarious protestors that were there.

This morning at work, I was taking a well-deserved break on my favorite toilet, and saw that someone had left a copy of the NY Post. Unfortunately, it was from August 5. No idea how it made it into the bathroom a month and a half later, but it was all I had. I got all caught up in the Scott Peterson murder case. Turns out he subscribed to the Playboy Channel two weeks after his wife was killed.

GUILTY!

Nothing says "I killed my wife" quite like subscribing to porn. This case seems pretty cut and dry. He dyed his hair, played golf and watched pornography. Why are we still wasting tax payers' money on this case? Fry the fuck.

In more current news, the president is staying at the hotel across the street from where I work. I'm going to try to hang out with him. Maybe he'll let me sleep over. How cool would that be? My favorite part would be when George W. Bush calls room service and asks if they could bring up a cot for me. We'd play PlayStation and buy a movie. Maybe Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle will already be on their movies list. If not, I'll buy a bootleg off the street.

While that most likely won't happen, the president has already affected my day. I need to mail some shit, but the mail boxes have been all locked up so people don't put bombs in them. Just another reason to vote for John Kerry. "As president, I will NOT lock mailboxes when I am in the city and you are already late in sending your student loan payment."

What bullshit. George Bush locking mailboxes. So conceited.

"Look at me. I'm the president. I'm afraid of assassins. I'm on the phone. Hi, is this New York? I'm going to be up there in a couple of days and I'd like to inconvenience everyone. Do you have a Triple A discount? No? How about AA? Ha ha. I'm just kidding. I used to drink. Anyway, I'd also like extra towels because it takes a lot to dry my big Texan balls. Also, make sure you lock up the mailboxes. If there's one thing I hate, it's mailboxes that are accessible."



In another bathroom related story for today (actually, it may have been on the same trip as this morning), while I was finishing up in there, a co-worker came in to pee. He always pees in the first stall - never in the urinal. So he was standing there, but I could hear that there was no pee. He was trying to pee, but couldn't. I suppose he had some stage fright. I saw him standing there seemingly quite uncomfortable. I think he was trying to do other stuff to take his mind off of it. He was fumbling with some toilet paper.

I felt bad for him. I've been there. I used to get stage fright, but I'm better now. Not sure how I overcame it, but all of the sudden, I can pee whenever I feel, in front of everyone. It's all about feeling comfortable with yourself. So to make this co-worker of mine feel more comfortable while he peed, I got behind him and tickled the heck out of him.

And pee he did!

That's a lie. I didn't tickle him. I did put my hands on his shoulders and gave him a little rub down. He was peeing in no time.

Another lie.

I did, however, say, "Can't tinkle, huh? That used to happen to me. You know how I cured it? I yell really loudly, 'Come on penis! Let's get this pee out! Come on bladder! Shove it down the urethra! Push it baby! Push it! Get out here, pee! I want to see you in all your yellowness, or perhaps you are clear today because I'm drinking a lot of water.' And then I'll chant, 'Ur-i-nate! Ur-i-nate! Ur-i-nate! Who wants Mike to ur-i-nate? I do! I do! I do! Pisssssssss! Pissssssss!' That usually does the trick."

That was also a lie. I didn't do anything. I just quietly walked out and let him pee in peace (or peece).

Well, that's all I have for you today.

Love,
Mike

I really don't give much of a shit about Kobe Bryant's ordeal, but this transcript is mighty interesting. Here's a fine nugget (Winters and Loya are the investigators):

Winters: "... do you think there's any possibility that at some point during this entire incident that she said no and it just happened to go on a little bit further and it just and then you quit?"
Bryant: "No. I stopped (inaudible), I stopped."
Winters: "When did she, when did you stop, what, what made you stop?"
Bryant: "Well I asked her about the ... thing and she was like no, I don't know."
Loya: "How many times did you ask her?"
Bryant: "Once."
Winters: "OK, all right, OK. You said, when, did it stop at that point?"
Bryant: "Um, did I stop? (inaudible) She went like this (inaudible), I asked her if I could ... and she was like no. Um, I thought she was cool, you know, I stopped. I stopped pumping and uh, I just, I just stood there like this (inaudible) and um, then she just moved like this."

I stopped pumping. How romantic. If you didn't know the context of this, you might think he was giving her CPR that she didn't respond to. Looks like Kobe might have to buy another diamond for his lady.

On the train this morning , I saw a man with a t-shirt that read, "WHO LET THE DOGS OUT". Then, below that was a cartoon drawing of three very mean looking dogs drinking beer. And then below that (yes, there's more... I also thought that was plenty to have on this shirt), it read, "WOOF, WOOF, WOOF, WOOF, WOOF!" And finally, below that, it read, "St. Maarten N.A."

He was also wearing plaid shorts and socks with sandals. I feel like he was mistakenly transported here from 1999. Or perhaps he somehow rode a hurricane up here.

What bothered me most about this shirt was that there was no question mark after "WHO LET THE DOGS OUT". So I read it as merely a statement. Someone named Who actually let the dogs out. Or possibly the World Health Organization let some dogs out. I'm sure they'd have their reasons. You never know when three beer drinking dogs can help out with world health.

That's all I've got for you this morning. Hopefully something more interesting will happen today.

Yesterday, I almost saw the most horrific thing I almost ever saw.

I was walking home and a woman was putting her kids in the car. As she was strapping one to the car seat, the other one, a little girl about three-years-old, decided it would be fun to start shrieking and smiling and then doing some running out into the middle of a busy avenue. I wasn't really watching, but I heard this old lady who was walking by me say, "Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!"

When I looked, the kid had just rounded the front of the car and was heading straight for an SUV doing about 45. And you know what the guy in the SUV did?

HE HONKED HIS HORN.

He didn't swerve. Didn't slam on the brakes. He honked his fucking horn. "Outta the way, ya stupid baby!"

Lcukily, the father, who was on the driver's side grabbed the kid and saved her little life. But it was really close and fairly frightening. So for the rest of my walk I thought of the other scenario, which basically would have been me watching as this kid got creamed. I imagined the cover of the Post or the Daily News saying, "Horror in Astoria". Then a subheadline that says, "Three-year-old tragically mowed down by guy who was in a rush. Some dude named Mike saw it happen, but didn't save the kid. He will be saddled with guilt for the rest of his life. Lady yells 'Oh my God!' an inappropriate amount of times. Yankees' lead remains at 4 games."

Boy am I tired. Boy, am I tired? Boy! Am I tired!

I am a tired boy. I don't think I have anything important to say to you today, dear readers.

I once mentioned a girl I went to high school with on this blog. Recently, someone got to this here blog by searching that name and from what I can tell, they spent a lot of time perusing my blog. I assume it is she. So if you are reading this, email me and say hi. Come on. Don't be a chicken. You know who you are. And if you don't know who you are, you got a bottle rocket in your eye in the fifth grade. Yes, you!

The other night on Channel 11 news, they were talking about the assault weapons ban. They then said something like, "And that is our Channel 11 news question for tonight. Are you better off with out without the assault weapons ban?"

Uuuuum. Well, I've never been shot with an assault weapon, so I guess it's worked out alright for me so far. No complaints.

And aren't all weapons technically "assault" weapons? I don't know of much pacifist weaponry.

On that Friday night when I was drunk, I was walking by a restaurant that had outdoor seating. There was a girl who had just taken a sip from her drink. As I walked by, I took the straw out of the glass and kept walking. She went, "Hey!" But it was just a straw. I don't think she wanted that back. I like knowing the fact that I completely altered their conversation.

I am sick of seeing headlines that read, "Kerry rips Bush on..." or "Bush slams Kerry over..." Will these two just fuck and get it over with? Sheesh. They are like Rachel and Ross.

Man, some people got really defensive about me not really digging Garden State so much. You know what it was that made me sour on it? The ending. It was terrible. The ending made me want to shit. The rest of it was pretty good. Sorry if I made you mad.

The other night on Monday Night Football, John Madden said this about Ricky Proehl: He is one of those guys that just knows how to play football.

Um, John, I'm pretty sure every guy in the National Football League knows how to play football. OK, I know he meant that Ricky has good instincts or whatever. But he said this right after a play where Proehl made a catch, then instead of running straight ahead, he cut to the left and was tackled. If he kept running, he probably could have had a touchdown, or at lease ten more yards. Them a shitty instinct right there. John didn't mention that.

I leave you with a bit of one of my favorite scenes from the Simpsons:

Aunt Selma has come to the realization that she might not ever have children, so Lisa says to her, "Aunt Selma, this might be a bit presumptuous, but have you ever considered artificial insemination?" Homer then giggles and says, "Boy, I don't know. You gotta be pretty desperate to make it with a robot."

That's it. Makes me laugh every time.

You might have already seen the story about the idiot from the Texas Rangers that threw a chair into the stands at a fan, which then bounced off that fan and hit an innocent lady in the face and broke her nose. Four and a half years ago, I could have been that innocent lady.

I went to a Baltimore Orioles game with my friends, Rick, Rich and Wayne. It was a day game and it started off as a beautiful day to watch baseball. The Orioles were playing the Detroit Tigers. We bought really good tickets and ended up sitting about ten rows behind the Tiger dugout.

So we did what most male American men in their early twenties to at a baseball game featuring two teams you couldn't give a shit about: We got drunk.

It was a good game, a pitcher's duel. Hideo Nomo vs. Someone Else (I forget). We yelled at a lot of players, but all in good fun. For some reason, we thought it was hilarious to heckle Brad Ausmus. No reason. I think we liked the way his name sounded when we'd say, "Auuusss-muuuuss... Auuusss-muuuuss." He turned around and looked at us a few times looking like, "What the hell are these guys heckling me for? I'm Brad Ausmus. I'm no one."

We also heckled Hideo Nomo a bit. You know how he has that wacky windup? Well, every once in a while when he would put his arms way over his head with his rib cage exposed, I'd yell out, "Tickle him!"

Anyway, the weather got weird around the eighth inning. It went from 80 degrees to about 60 degrees in about 10 minutes. The skies became dark and it started to rain. Not bad enough to warrant a rain delay, but enough to chase almost everyone out of the stadium. We were good and drunk by this point, so a little rain was a fun diversion.

Since our section was fairly empty, some of the riff-raff from the upper levels decided to come down and see how rich people like us live. There were these dudes, who seemed to be straight out of Limp Bizkit (they were probably the most popular band at the time) were doing a lot of yelling. Anyway, Doug Brocail, a relief pitcher for the Tigers was coming off the mound. On his way into the dugout, these guys said something to him, but nothing worse than, "Hey Opposing Player, you suck!"

Anyway, Doug Brocail came over to the edge of the seats, yelling like a mad man at these two guys. He actually was saying things like, "Meet me after the game." He wanted a fight. I'm pretty sure he didn't get one. A bunch of players came out of the dugout to hold him back, meanwhile anyone left in the section started yelling back at him, egging him on.

Why do I bring this up? Well, Doug Brocail is the fellow that seemed to start this whole debacle in Oakland. From the article:

Texas relief pitcher Doug Brocail was seen screaming at a male fan after the two appeared to exchange insults, and the pitcher had to be restrained by his teammates and bullpen coach Mark Connor.

Luckily for us, way back in 2000, Mr. Brocail didn't have an idiot teammate (Frank Francisco) to throw a chair at any of us. Or maybe it was unlucky. I'm sure that lady is going to get a fat settlement out of this, courtesy of the Texas Rangers, the Oakland Athletics (for the shitty security) and Major League Baseball.

Anyway, later that night we went to this bar/club. I'm sure we didn't need to continue drinking, but we did. (Except for Rich, who stayed home vomiting. He blamed it on Chinese food, but we all were pretty sure his ovaries were bothering him.)

At the bar, I was looking around and saw this Asian guy who kind of looked out of place. It was Hideo Nomo, standing by himself. So after some discussion, I decided it would be a good idea to go and talk to Hideo. Here was our conversation:

Me: You're Hideo Nomo, right?

Hideo: (Shakes his head)

Me: Yes you are.

Hideo: No.

Me: It's cool. I saw you pitch today. That was a good game.

Hideo: No.

Me: You are Hideo Nomo, right? Just tell me.

Hideo: No.


So that was it. We then realized that Doug Brocail was also among the players at the bar. He was with a couple of other pitchers and a bullpen catcher for the Tigers. They had a day game the next day, so only the guys who knew they weren't going to be playing were out at the bar. These guys were hitting on the nastiest looking girls. I guess, being from Detroit, they lowered their standards. (Zing! Take that, Detroit!)

I ended up having a chat with a guy who was one of the trainers for the Tigers. I asked him, "What the hell is Doug Brocail's deal?" He kind of laughed and just said something like, "He's kind of a high strung guy." No shit.

We also tried to get my friend Wayne to have a dance-off with Hideo Nomo, but of course, Hideo wanted nothing to do with it.

And that is my longer than I realized story about how I could have been the lady to get hit with a chair.

Good day, assholes!

Just kidding. I thought I'd try that whole "Be rude to the audience, that way they'll respect you more" thing. I don't think it works.

So this weekend was a beautiful weekend. Here is what I did:

Got stupid drunk on Friday.

Woke up reaching for the Advil on Saturday (although an anvil on my head would have been preferred to Advil). Glad to know I wasn't the only one with a hangover. Was up kind of early and decided to watch TV. Forgot that it was September 11th and everything on TV would be depressing. Went back to bed for a few hours. Woke up later and regretted wasting such a fine day. Contemplated going out that night, but thought it would be a bad idea. Watched X-Men. Awesome.

On Sunday I woke up early, had a nice breakfast at some cafe that I might go back to. Read some of the New York Times. But only some. That shit is huge! Read some shit about assholes in China polluting rivers and people dying of cancer. Assholes! The polluters, not the cancer victims. Then I went to a watering hole called The Irish Rover and watched six hours of football. Despite doing a lot of drinking, I was quite not drunk. It was another splendid day outside, which I spent in a dank bar with a bunch of dudes who would say things like, Yes! and Come on! and Get him! and Fuck!

I got home, hoping to watch some Simpsons and then Arrested Development, but the geniuses at Fox decided to put on Deuce Bigalow, Piece of Crapalo. So I thought I'd hit the hay, but I couldn't fall asleep. So I watch X-Men 2. Even more awesome.

Now here I am at work, pulling a later shift than normal.

I have nothing important to say about September 11 this year. I did, however, read an article in The New York Times Magazine where the author talked about people being "so over" 9/11. It made some good points and it kind of related to what I talked about last year, where I said I didn't want to forget what those days afterwards felt like. I don't think people are forgetting, but it's getting easy to not think about, thanks in part to time, and to politicians cramming it into our jugulars.

Here is one thing I do remember in the week or so after September 11th. People were so much nicer when they were in traffic. I remember everyone just sitting there, as if they were stoned, staring straight ahead, taking polite turns when lanes merged into one another, letting people in front of them without having a heart attack. Not a horn to be heard.

Of course, it's not like that anymore. There seem to be more assholes than ever honking their horns. Those assholes should go to China and pollute some rivers with those river polluting assholes.

That's a good name for a band. The River Pollutin' Assholes!

Two things have made me giggle like a bitch today.

First is this post here with the picture of Siegfried and Roy. Go look at it and then come back. I'll wait.

OK, you're back? Good. First, the Weekend at Bernie's reference is hysterical. What I also like is that despite his near death experience and being in a wheelchair, Roy still has time to keep a soul patch.

The other thing that made me giggle today is this blog. Here is the introduction to it. A good place to start. All I can say is that I wish I found a memory card filled with a frat guy's photos. Good stuff. Have fun perusing through the site (Link via Anise)

Last night I lost my wallet.

I just spoke the other day about how I am constantly checking for my wallet, so I thought that was an awesome blogging coincidence.

I got home at around 7, took a shower, then prepared myself to go to the bar and watch the football game. How American of me. So Doug is patiently waiting for me to get my ass ready, then I tap that ass to check for my wallet and it is not there. That's not unusual. I changed pants. It's probably just in my other pants. I check those pants. Nothing but loose change.

Hmm, so where is it? I look around my room. I have still not unpacked. I've got lots of boxes and bags around and few pieces of furniture. I have a bed, a bookcase and a dresser. I check the top of the dresser. Nothing. I check the bed, beneath the covers and behind it. Nothing. I check the bookcase. Nothing.

A-ha! I moved my car and when I moved it, I must have taken it out and put it on the passenger seat. That's most likely where it is. So we walk out to the car, where some nice local boys decided my car was a good car to sit on. You know. It's a Civic. Nice and low to the ground. Easy sittin'. They jump off my car and apologize. I say, "No, it's cool. I love it when strangers sit on my property. When you're done here, why don't you go take a shower in my apartment and then jump on my bed?"

Anyway, I search through my car and it's not there. Now I am starting to get a little worried. Everyone has had that moment where you think you've lost something -- a wallet, keys, a child -- but it is usually found within a few minutes. When it gets past that few minutes, and you feel you looked everywhere, that panic starts to set in.

So I look in the same places I've already looked in ten times. I check my car again. Still not there (and the kids have moved on to another car).

Now I'm full on freaking out. I turn my room upside down again. Nothing. I now realize that when I was in the 34th street subway station at rush hour, it must have been lifted.

Damn. Those announcements were right. I should have kept my wallet in my front pocket. Now I'm pissed and I can't believe I wouldn't be able to feel it when someone steals my wallet. I also was thinking about it when I was on the subway because my pockets in the pants I was wearing are quite shallow.

Then I get really pissed because my wallet is a brand new wallet that was a gift from my brother-in-law for being in the wedding party. So not only did I lose all my shit, but I lost a very nice gift and I feel like an asshole. In a moment of pissed off-ed-ness, I yell out, "FUCK!"

Doug, who is in the living room, says, "You found it?" I replied, "Um. No. I just said 'fuck'".

So after looking and looking, I resign myself to the fact that it's gone. I call up my credit card company, and of course get a recording.

"Please enter or say your 16 digit account number."

"I don't know it."

"That is not a valid account number. Please enter or say your 16 digit account number."

"I don't know my sixteen digit account number."

"That is not a valid account number. Please enter or say your 16 digit account number."

"I DON'T KNOW MY FUCKING ACCOUNT NUMBER."

"Please hold while we transfer you to the next available agent."

I've learned you just gotta be a dick to these recordings of people.

So I talk to a nice lady who answered and I explain that I think I have to cancel my credit card. I check recent activity and there is nothing on it, but maybe the fella who stole my wallet is just using the cash. I had recently visited an ATM, so my wallet was nice and plump.

I talk to her for a few minutes and I hear her clicking and typing away. I'm standing in my room. I'm still kind of looking around. Waiting for my wallet to jump out from somewhere. She asks me where I lost it. "On the train, I think." Did I call the cops? "No, not yet." OK, she says, just give me a couple of seconds here...

I am standing next to my dresser. Just kind of leaning on it. The top drawer has socks in it. Basically, the only clothes I've unpacked so far are my socks and some t-shirts. As I am waiting for the lady to tell me it is cancelled, I think, Let me just look in my sock drawer for no reason. Why would I even put my wallet in here? But what the hell. Might as well look. I've looked everywhere else.

I open up the sock drawer, and there on the top of my socks, sitting there like a beacon of hope, my wallet is looking at me, smiling, saying, "Here I am!"

I blurt out and interrupt the lady and say, "I just fucking found it."

So we had a hearty laugh. Myself, the lady and Doug. I asked her if this means she is going to put an asterisk next to my name that indicates I am a retard. She assures me that is not the case. I'm not so sure I trust her.

"I'm sorry sir. Although you do have excellent credit, it says here you are kind of a dipshit."

No clue why the hell I would put my wallet in a drawer, and then close it. Wha? Makes no sense.

I highly recommend losing your wallet and then finding it. I was so happy. I could have sworn this whole thing lasted about an hour, thinking we probably missed the first quarter of the game. I think it ended up being about 20 minutes.

So I have learned a couple of things. Even though it wasn't stolen, I should keep my wallet in my front pocket. Also, I really need to unpack.

The other day when I was going home on the subway, I sat next to a little old man. I paid not much mind to him. We just happened to be in close proximity. He was on my left, and to his left was a woman who was probably in her thirties.

At one point, she says something to him, which I can't hear (I had my headphones on), but apparently something has fallen from his pocket and she alerted him to it. He kind of fumbles around a bit, thanks her, and then says, "I got another one here, too." Now he reaches into his right pocket, which is on my side, and he is digging around in there like it's as deep as a well.

She, thinking he is a crazy old man who doesn't realize what just happened, says, "No. It's right here." Then he says, "No, no, no. I had two." I still don't know what the item in question is. He keeps digging, and then she looks around him, and in between me and the old man, and she says, "There it is." I finally look down to my left and there is a lemon rolling around on the seat, which has now approached my posterior.

He grabs and holds it up and says, "OK!" and gives a little old man giggle. He was very happy he didn't lose the other lemon. They continue to talk a bit, although I'm not sure about what (lemons, I'm assuming). He talks all sweet and nice to the lady. She gets off at the next stop and they bid farewell to each other.

He then relaxes and sighs, fumbles a bit more with his pockets and says to me, "These fucking lemons."

What's the big deal about this movie Garden State? I saw it yesterday, and to show how so-so this movie is, I didn't think about it until about 2:00 today. I almost forgot that I saw it. When I saw Eternal Sunshine, I probably thought about it every day for a week.

Not to say that Garden State is bad. It's just not that good. It includes a line similar to, "With you... I just feel... safe."

Pardon me while I vomit some popcorn.

There is just some dialogue in movies that should officially be retired. That line is one of them. Hang it from the rafters and never have it uttered in another film ever again.

Another thing that was weird about Garden State was that Natalie Portman seemed like she was 15. You know who should be getting more work than Natalie Portman? Alison Lohman. She's good. That's all I have on that.

My sitemeter stats recently dropped significantly. By about 40 people (average per day). Does anyone know if 40 people who read my blog recently died? I'd like to know. I'm worried.

This post is kind of a downer. I apologize. But if you get past it, there is a fine anecdote about boogers.

This shit in Russia. God damn. I keep reading articles about it, even though I feel like throwing up. Just reading and looking at pictures, I think I can actually feel my heart hurt. Can you imagine what living in that town must be like right now? At least 156 kids dead. How do other kids go back to school after that?

I don't know much about the Chechen war, but I do know this: Whatever they were fighting for (although what they did can hardly constitute "fighting"), they just blew it. Whatever small chance there may have been for the Russian government to cede any ground, you killed it as soon as you shot a child in the back.

Unlike September 11th, when there were people dancing in the streets of some fine countries, I can hardly imagine the citizens of Chechnya supporting this. This is the only quote I could find in an article from a Chechen citizen:

"I was sitting watching it on TV, and I was going out of my mind. I was thinking, what kind of people could do that? What kind of people could treat children like that?" said Tabarik Gagayeva, who sells sunflower seeds in a market outside the Chechen capital of Grozny.

On the list of victims in this whole mess, a distant second are the citizens of Chechnya, who now have no promise of ever getting what they want. Thanks to a bunch of sick bastards... no. Bastards implies they are human. But thanks to these whatever they are, Chechnya has just been guaranteed their shit lives will continue with no end in sight.

So bravo! to you, terrorists. Not only did you take away people's children, but you just took away any and all hope for your cause. But you're dead now. You got off easy. Not that there is any punishment that could fit this crime. But whatever it would have been, the lot of you got away from it. Hopefully, those in charge of the afterlife have devised something special for you, something new. And I hope it hurts like hell. Not only the physical kind of hurt, but something equivalent to those of a parent who watched their child get shot. Physical pain is too simple. Your thoughts should hurt. Everything you look at should make you want to cry. Your brain should do nothing but wail.

I'm done now. Bottom line: I don't like people that kill kids. Call me crazy.

Someone in my office, when standing at the left urinal, apparently likes to put their boogers on the right urinal. At least, that's what I'm assuming he does. When I stand at the left urinal, I can see these numerous boogers. There are about seven or so on there now.

Which brings me to my next question. Why?

Why not either use the toilet paper or paper towels to blow your nose, or perhaps you can toss the boogers in the urinal. Then they'll be flushed away.

Someone in my college dorm used to put boogers on the bathroom stall. We actually had to have a floor meeting about it. There was this black guy on my floor who kept to himself, but the boogers drew the line for him. He stood up in this meeting and was like, "I go and take a shit, and I gotta be lookin' at boogers? Boogers? Come on, man."

Couldn't have said it better myself. We always assumed it was this kid with the nickname of Rodent. He looked like a rodent. I would think that if anyone was putting their boogers on the wall, it'd be a guy named Rodent. No one in my office is named Rodent, though. So the jury is out. It's probably Doug.

In case you didn't get to follow the RNC this week, here is a quick recap:

9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Bush! Bush! Bush! 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Bush is great. 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Rudy! 9/11 9/11 9/11 Arnold! 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Bush twins are hot. 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 But they're stupid. 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Bush on a pile of rubble with a fireman. 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Hero. 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Bush. 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 Four more years! 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11.

There was no mention of that one guy. Oh, what's his name? Tip of my tongue... Oh yeah! Osama bin Laden! Remember that guy?! His fifteen minutes came and went pretty fast, huh? He reminds me of Ricky Martin or Naughty by Nature.

Bush's speech was a snoozefest until the end where he started crying like a little bitch. If I was a conspiracy theorist, I would have guessed that was one of those animatronic presidents from Disney's Hall of Presidents. In case you missed it, Bush started talking about the sacrifices soldiers have made, including the ultimate sacrifice, and he appeared to get a little teary eyed. It was quite unexpected and human. It probably swung a couple of votes his way.

The rest of the speech though, was more of a "this is what I will do for the next four years," but like most convention speeches, no plans on how to do it.

The first thing he said that made me cringe was when he said he believes in a government that enriches its citizens' lives, but does "not try to run their lives." Except of course for the gays and the lesbians.

The clapping and cheering was, as usual, way over the top. They just cheered everything. Even when he plugged his web site, there was an inordinate amount of cheering. "Wooo! Web site! URLs are awesome!" One thing about Kerry's speech was that he did a pretty good job in shutting everyone up. He didn't let them take over. Nothing is more boring than watching a boring speech broken up by clapping and idiots in stupid hats waving flags.

When he started to talk about terrorism and the war on terror, he said, "You know where I stand." I was hoping he'd follow that up with, "So let's just skip all that." So he talked for a long time about all that fun war stuff.

He mentioned how Kerry and Edwards "saw the threat" and both voted for the war. Yes, they saw the threat based on the shitty intelligence. We've been down this road, right?

So anyway, the bush twins are good looking gals, but did anyone catch their speech the other night? Ugh, it was terrible. It was like they were 12 years old and rehearsing for a school play. An incredibly retarded school play. There was some joke about how their parents do know the difference between Bono and mono. Wha? Is that the best their writers could come up with? How about some jokes about when your dad was an alcoholic and he beat the shit out of your mom. That would be hilarious.

Politics shmolitics.

Speaking of alcoholics, I am off to Penn State for the weekend to watch some football and drink some beverages. I am just getting over being sick, so this is probably not the smartest idea, but I committed to going. I guess I could not drink, but I think that would be even more stupid. Have you ever tried to be sober around 100,000 drunk people? Not fun.

So happy Labor Day. Don't do anything laborious.

So I spent my first night in a new room. I haven't had a chance to really think much about my new living situation. I feel like I haven't slept in years. Last night, when I had all my shit in the apartment, I sat down to write out a check. I wrote the check and sat back on the couch and realized I haven't a relaxing sit in a long time. It was nice. Never underestimate the importance of a good sit.

As far as the new roommate situation, so far so good. All he asked is that the ice trays are kept full. I can live with that. We went out for some dinner last night. Had a drink. Took a bath together. I thought that was a little weird but Doug said it's a Texas thing. He's from Texas. I didn't argue. You know what they say. When in Rome... take a bath with a fella.

The big difference so far is my walk to the subway. I used to be two blocks away, but now it's a decent 15 minute walk. Right now that's not so bad, but come winter, that's gonna blow monkey balls.

I will also miss my pizza place on Driggs Ave. They know how I like my pizza (not too hot... I've got a sensitive mouth and all). And they had damn good pizza. The Grandma pizza is the best. I'll have to go back just for that. Then there's El Loco Burrito, which makes the best burritos that are the size of your head. For five bucks. So good.

In my old room, I had one of those chains that hung down from my light on the ceiling, so I'd always reach up to turn the light on and off. I have done that about ten times so far in my new room. There is no chain though. So if anyone is looking in my room, they see me reach up, then pull my hand away real quick. I must look like I'm doing some really lazy exercise.

Which reminds me of an anecdote about my ass. I constantly check my pockets for three things. My phone, keys and wallet. I'll just tap the pockets that they are in, just to make sure they are there. So it is normally front left pocket, front right, then right rear. I do it without thinking. No big deal. But if I am in public and I tap my back pocket and my wallet isn't there (maybe it's in my front pocket or I felt I didn't need it), I think people see me touching my own ass and I get self-conscious.

I feel that everyone stares at me and thinks, That guy is a pervert! Tapping his own ass for no reason. The nerve!

Anyway, you're all invited to my new apartment for a party. Say, Friday, around nine? I'll be away for the weekend, and I think Doug is working, so just be sure to lock up when you leave. And fill the ice trays.

Well, I have found a place to live. I will be residing in Queens for the next whatever. Not my ideal situation, but it'll do. That's what you get for procrastinating. I've always been a good procrastinator, where I pull something amazing out of my ass at the last minute. Didn't happen this time.

It's a nice apartment, a bit far from the subway, but only one roommate, not two with their live-in boyfriends. Problem is, my new roommate is also a co-worker, so I can't talk shit about him on here because I think he reads the blog. Therefore, I have established a new blog just for Doug.