Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

I'm not the biggest fan of Condi Rice, but any ticket with Mr. Met on it is good enough for me.

Rice and Mr. Met in '08!

What up, my African-Americanz!!!???

So I am thisclose to having a new apartment all to myself. There is just this little matter of meeting the landlord this weekend (he wants to make sure I look clean, I guess), then I have an apartment in Hoboken, NJ.

Yes, Hoboken. Home of Frank Sinatra, baseball and Yo La Tengo. Three awesome things. It is now more known for drunk frat boys, but it's not all like that. There are other drunk people, not just frat boys.

So yeah, I started stressing out big time this week over this whole moving thing. Life decisions blow! I saw a lot of crappy apartments, but I saw this one that I decided I loved, only after I saw tons of garbage. This one was the first one I looked at, but I was like, "I'll hold out for something more awesome."

Then I realized that was the one. And I actually called this realtor and found out it was still available, and he was all, "OK, tomorrow when I get in the office, I'll write the lease." I even negotiated with him and got the rent down, so I was all proud of myself. Then he calls me the next day and tells me that he just found out it has been rented.

Fuck you, Liberty Realty!

They should change their slogan from "Location, Location, Liberty" to "Liberty Realty: A Bunch of Monkeys Fucking a Football."

So then I was all freaked out and pissed off and wondering what part of town I should be homeless in. I settled on the Upper West Side because it's close to the park and there are rich people and a few liberals up there that will give me cash when I panhandle.

But then I found a lady named Millie. Now, I haven't signed anything yet, so I don't want to jinx it, but things feel good right now. She showed me this apartment that is all brand new, has a deck, central air, and a dishwasher. A dishwasher!

For those of you that live in the city, a dishwasher is this machine that you put dishes in (or cups or silverware or pots... not just dishes), and then the machine washes all that stuff for you! The future is now!

A fucking dishwasher, and this place is the same price as the other apartment I loved. The other apartment had its charm and a better location, but none of this shit. I think I was about the same age as the refrigerator. Once I finally sign the lease and get this place, I think I might just walk around and say to random people, "I've got a dishwasher, motherfucker!"

But right after I first saw this place and was nuts about it, I got home and was doing some research on Hoboken, and found that it was kind of close to the Projects. You know, the Projects. So I was reading this shit where this guy was talking about all this crazy crap that happened to him because he lived in the area. So I was all freaked out because you know, I'm a gentle white boy. I probably wouldn't make it in the Projects.

So I came up with some ideas to co-exist. If I ever have to go through there for some reason, what I will do is either:

a) Run through at full speed yelling, "AAAAHHHHHGGGGHHHHH Please don't touch me!!! I've already dialed 911 all I have to do is hit send please don't murder me!!! I think 50 Cent is a bad influence on today's youth!"


b) I was going to get one of those suits that stuntmen wear when they have to be put on fire. So I'd just set myself on fire and run through. No one is going to take my iPod if I'm on fire, right? People would just watch me and be like, "Hey, there goes that fire guy again."

So then I started asking around, and I think whatever I read on the internet was a little blown out of proportion. People that lived in the area said it was fine. A few blocks away is sketchy, but I'd be fine, they said.

Just to be sure, I went and walked through the neighborhood after work tonight, around midnight. My thought process was, OK, if I don't get raped tonight, I'll be cool. I didn't get raped, which is nice, because then I would have had to let Millie down.

"Hi Millie? It's Mike Toole. I'm sorry to do this to you, but I'm actually going to have to pass on the apartment. ... Yeah, well, last night I walked through there just to get a sense of the neighborhood and what it would be like when I got out of work, and I got raped, so... Yeah, oh no, I know, it is a great apartment, you're right, but I'm just kind of a stickler for not getting raped. ... Well, no, that's the thing, I got raped. Yeah. I mean, not a lot, but it was still a good raping. Yeah, I'm sorry. I mean, other than being raped like that, the place was perfect. If I know anyone that needs a place and likes getting raped, I'll give them your number. Thanks Millie."

Someone at work mentioned to me today that I should go through the neighborhood and ask people what it's like there.

"Excuse me? Hi, um, let's say, hypothetically, it was 11:30, 12:00 at night and it was just me and you on this street. Would you stab me? You would? Oh, OK. I had a feeling. Thanks."

I walked through tonight and nothing happened. Everything is all good.

So keep your weiners crossed for me. I should get this place on Saturday. You can all come over and help me unpack. And if someone would like to buy me a couch and a television, that'd be fantastic.

This is a weird story about a 78-year-old man that set himself on fire in Queens. The guy went outside, with help from his walker, went to the middle of the street, doused himself in gasoline and then set himself ablaze.

Of course, here is the unnecessary quote from a "family friend."

"Something like this always makes people surprised."

Really? Ya think?

Hey dude, how's your grandfather doing?

Oh, I guess you didn't hear. He passed away.

Oh man, I'm sorry. How?

He went out to the middle of the street, covered himself in gasoline, then set himself on fire.

My God, I'm so sorry.

Oh no, it's cool. Totally saw it coming.

Oh yeah. Kind of like when your grandmother died of that heroin overdose at a rave, right?


Dear Tourists,

It is weird when you take pictures of yourself in front of Ground Zero and you are smiling.

That is weird.

Just thought you'd like to know.

It's weird.



Hey how are you it's eight o clock in the morning and I'm drinking a beer.

Yeah, take that, Les Phillips.

Why am I drinking a beer at eight o clock in the morning? Well, I just got home from work. Someone didn't show up when they were supposed to, so I was a sucker and stayed late. Real late. Hours late. Eight.

So now I'm pretty tired and it's hot out and I don't have air condition. Well, no. I do have air condition. The condition of my air is humid and muggy and sweaty. I don't have A/C.


So I was going to post some photos from Chicago for you, but now I'm drunk on one beer and don't have the patience. I'll give you... let's say two photos. Here you are.

After my work week, I stayed for a few extra days, as did a few co-workers. I went on this boat architecture tour, which was pretty cool and this lady was our guide. Her name was Joanne. She reminds me of my mom, if you put my mom in an oven for about an hour and a half.


I went to the Art Institute and saw this sculpture. I believe it is called "Man Dry Humping Lion."


Yes, I went to the Art Institute and got a kick out of a naked guy wrestling a lion. Very mature am I.

OK, more photos. I've got my second wind. Wait... Second wind? Second city? Windy city? That is fairly coincidental!

This is Matt. One of those co-workers I was talking about. He is really photogenic. On the left, he has a mouthful of ribs. On the right, he is celebrating some sort of bowling feat. I think he just got a spare. Which apparently called for the "I'm going to pretend to be riding a bull while wearing bowling shoes" dance.


By the way, Matt already posted many of these pictures on his own awesome blog. He stole them from me.

I went to the Cubs game. The one where Mark Prior busted up his elbow. Here is a fine reaction from a Cubs fan.


I say it's a fine reaction, because you can see distress. There were too many Cubs fans that applauded the out, although their hope for the future was writhing on the ground in pain. Some Cubs fans are really dumb. As are their beer guys.

I saw Mark Prior's last game ever!

This is Matt again. You might think he is yelling something to the effect of, "Let's go Cubs! I am a Padres fan, but today I am rooting for you! You have a very nice ballpark!" But no, he isn't yelling! He is yawning! Oh, silly Padres fan.


Here is my awesome Mets hat at Wrigley. Look at how awesome and filthy and beaten my hat is. It is really dirty. It has so much residual sweat in it, that if I sweat just a little bit, it makes it look like I am sweating tar.


This is the best cab driver in all of Chicago. His cab number was 4161. He played music loud and knew how to please drunk people. Well, as far as cab drivers go. There are many ways to please a drunk person, but cab drivers can only do so much. But somehow, Mr. 4161 did it. I don't know who that girl on the right is. She just rode shotgun with the cabbie the entire night.


This is just a rad building.


Cubs win! Cubs win!


Here I am wearing goggles at a bar. You don't need to know why.


This is a girl named Tania eating at a Mexican restaurant. The plate you see before her is a dish called Chachos. What is a Chacho? From what I can tell, they take a few tortilla chips, ten at the most, and then throw a fucking shitload of steak on top of them and call it an appetizer.

Hey, Carlos, how much steak goes on the Chachos?

A shitload.

How much is that?

Throw some steak on. I tell you when. OK, good, you have a shitload.


Yankee. Hotel. Foxtrot.


Here is a guy named Jeff bowling his heart out. He kind of looks like he's dropping a really painful testicle.


OK. I'm done. Time for bed. It is now nine nineteen.

Holy crap, summer is here. How do I know? Aside from the oppressive heat, there are two telltale signs. One, ladies dress a lot more sexy, and two, my back will not stop sweating until late September. Those two things go really well together. Like, I'll be walking down the street, see a pretty lady, and I'll be like, "Hey, that's a pretty skirt. Would you like to touch my back? No, seriously." Then I lean in and whisper all sexy-like, "It's as though my spine has sprung a leak."

My back sweat is out of control. It's the one thing I know that I've inherited from my dad. We look nothing alike, act nothing alike, but when it comes to back sweat, like father, like son. To paraphrase that old lady in Billy Madison, If sweating on your back was cool, I'd be Miles Davis.

OK, done with that subject.

The other night I had a dream that Trish owned a dog. She might own a dog, I'm not sure, but this dog was really unique, because instead of a coat of fur, it had a coat of butter and ketchup. It was really gross. You'd pet it and get butter and ketchup on your hands. That would be the worst shedding dog of all time. You know when you leave someone's house that has a shedding dog, then you realize your clothes are covered in dog hair because you sat on the couch? With Trish's dog, you'd be leaving the house and someone would be like, "Oh wait, you've got lots of ketchup and butter on your clothes."

I think the only positive would be when you're eating at Trish's house and instead of finding a dog hair in your food, you find some ketchup or butter. That would be acceptable.

Last night I had a dream that I had to send a Whopper to this guy from my company that works in San Francisco. We had to parcel it overnight. My sister Christina was the one making it and she didn't do a very good job, but we still sent it. I was a little nervous. I think the bun was broken.

What do these dreams mean? Help me out here, Les Phillips. Maybe I should put down the bottle.

So what else? This past weekend I was in a bar in the District of Columbia. I was on the top floor of this bar, the third or fourth floor, I forget, but all of the sudden we had to evacuate because they said there was an electrical fire downstairs. No big deal, they said, but we must leave. If there was an actual fire, I'd be blogging this from hell or heaven right now, because it took a long ass time to get downstairs.

Once we got to the ground floor and on the way out, the fire fellas had just arrived and one came running in and plowed into my friend Cori, who is a tiny little lady. Don't get me wrong, she could totally kick your ass, but a fireman running with an oxygen tank on his back is no match.

She got out, and then right as I got to the front door to leave, a fireman crossed in front of me, and he was carrying a hose. A hose to put out the fire that didn't seem to exist. Anyway, I was pretty much trapped because of the hose. It was up around my stomach and I was backed up against a wall, so I had to basically help them get the hose into the bar. I had to "feed" it along as it went by, otherwise it would have pinned me to the wall. So for like a minute, I was a fireman.


I really liked it. I think I want to be a fireman now. All you do is run into buildings that aren't on fire and knock into small girls and then try to lasso people with your hose.

So, I consider myself a hero. I will be having a parade soon. Time and place TBA.

Remember when I used to blog about stuff? Good times.
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006