Hiatus

I’m sure all five (literally) of my readers are despondent at the infrequency of my posting. However, I’ve been really busy lately, what with Thanksgiving, the Laguna Beach season finale and my ongoing plot to kill the upstairs neighbor without getting caught. (Stupid Russian government stole my idea of using polonium-210. Jerks.)

Anyway, I’m just stopping by to say with the holidays approaching and all the social (read: drinking) opportunities they afford, things are likely to get worse. There may not be anything new on here until 2007. However, there is good news. I plan to launch Son of Manus 2.0 in January. I’m not exactly sure what that will entail, but hopefully the “2.0” tag is sufficiently irritating.

On that note, I hope y’all have a fabulous holiday season. Remember to keep the Christ in Christmas (as in “Jesus fucking Christ, I hate these goddamn tourists!”) and I will see you in ’07. (Or earlier if I get a special message from my cup of eggnog.)

Bonnes Fêtes!

De-Parting Shots

So I work with this guy who is a Cardinals fan (he’s from St. Louis, which is surprising, because I thought the Midwest was a myth, like Atlantis), and we share a workspace. He has a cutout of Tony LaRussa’s head taped to the computer, which I find kind of disconcerting. However, I can’t say anything to him about it because A) until recently, I had a picture of David Wright with an “I heart Kate” thought bubble taped there and B) if Tony LaRussa’s head can do anything to end this interminable World Series, I’m all for it.

Since everyone who “blogs” is contractually obligated to mention the World Series and The Departed, here’s my review of the movie: it’s not Goodfellas, but it’s not bad. On the plus side: Matt Damon is hot. Leo DiCaprio is hot. I think I’m a little bit in love with Marky Mark.* I give the Boston porn an A+ (even though the movie was mostly shot in New York - which I take as a shout-out to me), and according to IMDB.com, they use the word “fuck” 237 times in the whole movie, only slightly less than I do in an average conversation.

On the minus side, not EVERYONE in Boston has a Boston accent, so I find it annoying that EVERY character in EVERY movie set in Boston sounds like Cliff Clavin. Did every character in Goodfellas have an obviously fake New York accent? No. Does everyone in The Sopranos really sound like they’re from Jersey? No. So knock it off.

Secondly, there is no way the woman in the movie is hot to enough to sleep with Matt Damon AND Leonardo DiCaprio, fake accent or no. She is just too skinny and annoying. Also, I am so over Jack Nicholson, although he wasn’t as irritating as usual. But he needs to retire.

And I guess that's it. Two thumbs up. Go Tigers (or whoever)!!

*Speaking of Marky Mark, I recently re-watched Boogie Nights, and all I can say is, all this time I thought Dirk Diggler was a real porn star. I know he is based on one, but I thought he was a real guy. I also thought Go Ask Alice was a real book and I guess it did its job as anti-drug propaganda because I was always too scared to try LSD for fear I would accidentally put the neighbor’s baby in the oven to kill all the bugs crawling on it.

Brutal

MLB Extra Innings package: $159
Broken remote: $20
Alcohol and therapy: $879,034

Being a Red Sox fan: Priceless

Leftovers

Just some random shit that was floating around my hard drive.

Step one to reinventing one’s career: don’t leave notes from career reinvention seminar in cab.

Step two: When envisioning mythical perfect career, consider things you love. Wrack brain to think of job that combines lying on beach, drinking wine and watching Flavor of Love.

Step three: Seek advice from those already established in field you’re considering. Email Oprah and ask her to bankroll me on new career drinking wine on the beach.

Step four: Get tired of trying to think of fake career reinvention advice and go out for ice cream.

Lessons I’ve Learned from Urban Cowboy:

Cowboy boots are appropriate wedding attire
If your wife wants to ride the mechanical bull, you’re better off just letting her
Don’t climb to the top of the oil refinery during a lightning storm
If you enter a bar contest with John Travolta, he is going to win
Don’t mess with Texas

Pet Peeves of Rosemary’s Babysitter:

Satan’s check always bounces
Kid keeps leaving his pitchfork on the bus
Cloven hooves track mud on playroom carpet
None of the other nannies will talk to her at Starbucks
Constantly have to wash crayon pentagrams off the wall
The brat keeps trying to buy other kids’ souls with Monopoly money
Impossible to get goat smell out of clothes at the end of the day
Play-dates usually end in human sacrifice
The nursery is hot as hell

Twelve Steps

Kate has agreed to be in a documentary about addiction. She doesn’t know she will soon face an intervention.

Kate: My name is Kate. K-A-T-E. I’m addicted to downloading crappy music from iTunes. I don’t how I got started. It just sort of snuck up on me. Of course I’d heard about iTunes before, but I wasn’t that familiar with it. I didn’t even know how to download music. Yeah, I had friends who did it, but I was always like “I could never do that.” Then one day I happened to click on the web site and I found a list of ‘80s One-hit wonders. That was all it took.

Kate was on iTunes for seven hours Saturday night.

Kate: The first song I ever downloaded was “I Don’t Like Mondays” by the Boomtown Rats. I’ve loved that song since high school. I put it on every mixed tape I made from 1988 to 1990. I lost it when all my tapes mysteriously disappeared last year. So to just find the song there, waiting for me… and for only 99 cents… I mean, what would you do?

Soon Kate was downloading Dolly Parton and Barry Manilow.

Snoop (House Cat): Kate’s always had terrible taste in music. She owns a Carpenters CD. Sometimes she makes me dance with her to “What’s New Pussycat.” It’s scary when she does that. I'm afraid this easy access to ‘70s power ballads and one-click buying will push her over the edge. If she doesn’t get this intervention… I don’t know what will happen.

Yesterday, Snoop walked in on Kate browsing Jennifer Lopez songs.

Jeff (Interventionist): Hi, I’m Jeff. We’re here to talk about Kate’s intervention tomorrow. What I need from you is to say what you will do if she refuses this offer of help. Snoop, since you’re the only one here, why don’t you start.

Snoop: If you don’t accept this help today, I probably won’t do anything different because I’m a cat.

Jeff: Great. Thanks. Now all we can do is cross our fingers.

* * *

Kate: I’m so glad work is over. I can’t wait to go home and download Britney Spears. (Enters apartment) Who the hell are you? What are you doing to my computer?

Jeff: I’m Jeff. Kate, your cat, and I’m sure your friends, if you have any, really care about you and want to get you help.

Kate: Fuck you. I don’t need help. I need the Divinyls.

Snoop: I can’t take it anymore! Little River Band, Al Stewart, a-ha… it’s got to stop. You’re spending a dollar a song! A dollar a song! Don’t you see how you’re hurting yourself?!!

Kate: I don’t care. It’s not that bad. I won’t stop! HOW CAN YOU ASK ME TO STOP THE ONLY THING I’VE EVER LOVED???!!!!

Jeff: Look, there are people who can help you. Won’t you let them?

Kate: I can’t, I can’t. Don’t you see, I can’t? I have nothing else. I can’t live in a world without the Spice Girls, I can’t.

Jeff: We’re gonna get you help for that. There’s a place for people just like you. Will you accept this help today?

Snoop: Say yes! And feed me.

Jeff: Will you accept this help today?

Kate: I don’t have a choice do I?

Jeff: No. You’re out of options. Will you go to treatment?

Kate: Can I drink there?

Jeff: Sure.

Kate: Okay.

Snoop: Thank god! Now feed me.

Kate spent 90 days living in a fourth-floor Williamsburg walk-up with a bunch of squatters in a rock band. She returned home and was Neil Diamond-free for three weeks. On the twenty-second day she bought Harry Nilsson’s Greatest Hits.

Reunited

Step back off the ledge…I’m back.

It’s been wayyy too long since I’ve had the opportunity to polish off a bottle of wine on my couch, listen to my 70s music cable channel and expound on why Gristede’s sucks. Now I know how Lindsay Lohan feels. I’m sure all she wants is to kick back and chill at home but she’s under constant pressure to party, party, party. Kind of like me lately. Forced to go to Utah, then Worcester, then the Cape. I mean, for the love of god, I’m not a machine.

Despite the many opportunities I’ve had to be annoyed in the past month, I can’t think of anything new that I haven’t already gone into at length, so I will spare you. In case you’re wondering, I still hate: my job, Bank of America, Boston College, Jorge Posada and people who snap their gum on the subway. In my bid to be more positive and tolerant (which hurts me more than it hurts you) I’ve enjoyed the following: seeing actual, live buffaloes in Utah, hanging out with my Boston peeps, watching Brigid try not to puke during Jeremy’s wedding ceremony, the Red Sox kicking the NL’s ass, a mudslide at the Beachcomber and driving through Connecticut. Okay the last one was just to see if you were paying attention. Connecticut: an Indian word that means “driving 50 mph in the passing lane.” Thank you, I’ll be here all week. (Everything’s funny after a bottle of Prosecco!)

Diary of a Hangover

Saturday, June 3, 2006

5:45 am
Alarm. Wake up fully clothed on top of covers. Curse 7 am shift. Wonder if possible to kill self with ibuprofen since have no other pills on hand. Go back to sleep.

6:15 am
Open eyes, check time. Go back to sleep.

6:40 am
Consider calling in sick, but can’t since called in sick last week.

6:42 am
Haul self out of bed. Change clothes, brush teeth, forego contacts.

6:47 am
Lie down for five more minutes.

7:02 am
Leave house.

7:03 am
Find crumpled dollar bills in bag, pray there is enough money to take cab.

7:04 am
Enter subway.

7:05 am
Contemplate throwing self on tracks.

7:27 am
Arrive at work. Dig through bag to find ID. Empty entire contents of bag onto floor. Call overnight guy to sign me in since ID seems to have disappeared.

8:03 am – 9:17 am
Copy stories from archive in lieu of writing new ones. Rest head on desk. Drink water.

9:21 am
Realize can probably leave when co-worker comes in at 10:00.

9:58 am
Sit very, very still to avoid vomiting.

10:12 am
Tell self it’s okay to leave six hours early because worked two extra hours last night. Also, is possible have virus, wouldn’t want anyone else to catch it.

10:17 am
Get cab money out of ATM near office. Walk upstairs because escalator is broken as usual.

10:18 am
Decide to walk to Eighth Ave. to get cab going uptown. Accept fact throwing up is inevitable.

10:19 am
Puke behind parked car on 48th Street.

10:19 am
Twice.

10:19 am
Wipe nose with ATM receipt.

10:24 am
Get into taxi while chunks of vomit nest in nose, mingling with smells of air freshener and cab driver B.O.

10:33 am
Run in to Dad in lobby of apartment building who rolls eyes and shakes head.

10:34 am
Crawl into bed.

2:02 pm
Slowly regain consciousness. Decide crackers might settle stomach, but they are all the way in kitchen. Beg cat to get crackers. Tell cat if she doesn’t get crackers, she is cut off from Fancy Feast.

2:08 pm
Tell cat she is going to pound as soon as I feel better.

2:37 pm
Settle onto couch with crackers. Try to check email but words keep jumping around screen.

2:39 pm
Go back to bed.

4:26 pm
Wake up from nap. Muster strength to retrieve crackers from coffee table. Take crackers to bed with towel to catch crumbs. Reminisce about similar situation freshman year of college, involving bed, chicken wings and towel. Realize have serious problem.

5:23 pm
Extremely thirsty. Think about how good ginger ale would be. Don’t even bother asking cat to go to store because she is a lazy little bitch.

5:35 pm
Think it’s possible could make it to store now. Soup would be good too.

5:47 pm
Get dressed, leave house.

5:48 pm
Walk around corner to store.

5:50 pm
Buy ginger ale, iced coffee and two kinds of soup.

5:55 pm
Arrive home. Deposit groceries in kitchen. Lie down.

6:17 pm
Feel well enough from soup and ginger ale therapy to turn on TV.

7:48 pm
Watch Red Sox, eat greasy Thai food.

7:49 pm
Think about what I’ve learned from experience and consider becoming Mormon so won’t be tempted by demon tequila again.

7:50 pm
Realize probably wouldn’t be very good Mormon, so might as well have a beer.

Lion's Den

I’m suffering from post-Meatster/Opening Day melancholia and have been feeling hella depressed all week (I can sell the slang, right?). I was just about to buy some cigarettes and turn on Lifetime, but then I found a show on NGC about lions eating people and I’m starting to feel better. Nothing like a little carnage to kick off the holiday weekend. Wow, this is one bad-ass lion. It’s already killed 49 people and we’re only 41 minutes into the show. I need to get me one of those.

“Something else must be driving this lion to target people as prey…” Oh, let me guess, it’s the humans’ fault, right? Those African villagers and their CO2 emissions are heating the earth, melting the ice caps and pissing off the lions? What a surprise. Oh wait, it turns out the lion had a toothache. Apparently, to lions, people are the equivalent of mashed potatoes and they can eat them through a straw. That’s good to know. I will take The Snoop to the vet to get her teeth cleaned ASAP.

On an unrelated note, I’d like to thank Amtrak for turning my innocuous four-hour jaunt from Boston to New York into a nine-hour ordeal that even the Donner party would bitch about. Thanks, Amtrak.

Born Again

I really need to stop watching cable because now I’m worried about an impending "perfect" solar storm that will knock out power across the globe for months, resulting in a situation where I’ll have to kill and roast my cat over a candle flame just to have something eat. Thanks, Discovery Channel. As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about with all the rampaging elephants and mega-tsunamis.

You know baseball is long overdue when the afternoon lineup on the sports channels includes curling, soccer, arena football, ultimate fighting, NASCAR and triathlon. The YES Network, however, thoughtfully whet (whetted?) our baseball appetites this afternoon with Alex Rodriguez: 3 Home Runs, 10 RBI's. I happen to know that the original title of the show before A-Rod’s lawyers got involved was Alex Rodriguez: 3 Home Runs, 10 RBI’s, 2 Purple Lips and A Whole Lotta Slappin’! Ahh, Opening Day! A shiny blank slate with 162 games’ worth of A-Rod jokes to look forward to.

Here are some predictions for the 2006 season:

*Johnny Damon and his wife will run up a $250,000 bill at Scores and be asked to leave when they try to have a threesome in the Champagne Room with Anna Benson
*The woman who had Randy Johnson’s “love child” will miraculously regain her eyesight, see a picture of Johnson and immediately kill herself
*Ronan Tynan will stretch "God Bless America" into an unprecedented 87 minutes
*Ronan Tynan will be beaten to death while waiting for the D train
*Mike Piazza, emboldened by the laid-back culture of Southern California, will dye his hair blonde, take up surfing and move in with his pool boy
*A Yankee fan somewhere will say “youse”
*A-Rod and Jeter will finally set a date

Happy Opening Day!

Cry For Help

Signs you have an unhealthy obsession with The Sopranos due to not having anything else meaningful in your life:

*You have a crush on Vincent Curatola
*You start to think New Jersey might not be a bad place to live
*You currently have seven unwatched episodes stored on your DVR and are rationing them so they will last until the new season begins
*You've renamed your cat Silvio
*You googled Drea De Matteo at work tonight (and you’re not a lesbian)
*You wish you could send Furio upstairs to beat the crap out of your neighbor
*Your hatred for Meadow burns hotter than a thousand suns
*You are fanatically following the John “Jr.” Gotti trial in the Post
*You were thinking about the Lufthansa heist when you went to JFK last week (Sopranos, Goodfellas... whatever)
*You've considered taking your mom’s Italian maiden name
*You try to remember all the swear words you learned from your grandma, whose Italian vocabulary was mainly comprised of ways to call your uncle’s girlfriend a whore
*You know exactly how many minutes there are until March 12 at 9 pm

Special Victims

Dear Upstairs Neighbors:

Hi! I like Law & Order SVU too! The thing is, I prefer to watch it in my own apartment at a reasonable volume. If you could be so kind as to please turn down your TV, I would be eternally grateful. Thank you so much!

***
Dear Upstairs Neighbors:

Hi there, it’s me again. I really hate to keep harping on this, but your TV is still quite loud and I’m trying to do some work down here. That dun-dun sound effect really breaks my concentration.

But hey, how about that Chris Meloni! He goes to my gym! We both like to use the chest press, and sometimes I use treadmill 17 right after he does. I’m not supposed to talk to him anymore (stupid judge!), but maybe if you turned down your TV I could introduce you. Think about it! Thanks.

***
Dear Upstairs Neighbors:

I know, I know, my ears are probably just sensitive, but your TV is still a tad loud. I wouldn’t keep bothering you, but Mariska Hargitay’s voice really upsets me. If you could just turn it down a smidge, thanks.

***
Dear Upstairs Neighbors:

Look, I’ve asked you nicely three times. I would hate for anything to happen to you guys or that cat you think no one knows you have. I don’t want to resort to anything so silly as “legal action” or having to call the landlord, but if you don’t turn it down I can’t be responsible for what happens.

***
Dear Upstairs Neighbors:

Seriously, turn it down.

***
DEAR UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR ASSHOLES:

TURN DOWN YOUR FUCKING TV OR I WILL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP!!!!!!!!!!

I DON’T CARE IF I GO TO JAIL BECAUSE THE CLOVEN-HOOFED RICHARD BELZER IS THE SUCCUBUS and ICE-T is the SNAKE who lives in the LOINS of the DARK MASTER!!!!!!!!!

DIE MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!!!

Off Broadway

Rejected play first drafts:

Cat in a Pot of Boiling Water
by Tennessee Williams

A Streetcar Named M-11
by Tennessee Williams

Twelve Mildly Disgruntled State Workers
by Reginald Rose

Romeo and Mercutio
by William Shakespeare

Long Day’s Journey Into Teaneck
by Eugene O’Neill

Master Harold…and the Boys from the Ice Show
by Athol Fugard

Our Town Sucks
by Thornton Wilder

Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern Are My Two Dads
by Tom Stoppard

Oedipus Bangs His Mom
by Sophocles

Home Sweet Home

How to annoy me at home:

*Live upstairs and clomp around on your uncarpeted hardwood floor in platform shoes or, alternatively, when in bare feet, take really big steps, using as much force as possible
*Live upstairs and watch Law & Order with the volume turned up to one billion so I can't hear The Sopranos
*Call me before noon
*Play with your furry mice at 4 am^
*Play with a real mouse at 4 am^
*Climb the mini-blinds and hang from them^
*Act like you haven’t eaten in three years every time I walk by the kitchen even if you actually ate 10 minutes ago AND you have a full bowl of dry food^
*And when I do feed you, gobble it down as fast as possible so you can throw it up two minutes later^
*Try to wedge your UPS truck past the moving van parked in the middle of the street so when the inevitable cab gets stuck behind you the driver will lean on his horn for 40 minutes
*Be Oprah

^Cats only

Coming Soon: How to annoy me on the subway

Lame

I think that HBO should refund part of my monthly fee every time Meadow sings on The Sopranos. They are showing season two, and she sings every freaking episode. I should have completely free cable by now. Shut up Meadow.

I know I am five, but I still think it’s really funny when dog show announcers say “bitch,” as in “I’ve been living with that bitch for seven years.” Also I'm sure I was the only person in the U.S. flipping back and forth between the Eukanuba dog show and the Pats game Saturday night (and Dirty Dancing on Oxygen, of course). I am such a waste of a MetroCard.

Do, Re, Mi

The reason I always make fun of white trash is because I’m only a Poconos time-share away from being white trash myself. Case in point, I plan to leave my Christmas lights up all year, I love Hershey Bars and I won $1,000 on a scratch ticket last week. That doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but I want my peeps to know I’m keeping it real.

The Nazis in the Sound of Music have to be the dumbest Nazis ever. Do you mean to tell me they posted guards all over the auditorium during the festival but no one was watching the door? And didn’t Max get punished for so obviously helping the von Trapps escape? And why weren’t the nuns immediately taken to a concentration camp after they dismantled the Nazis’ cars? The only Nazi who showed any initiative was Rolf, and it was probably just because Liesl refused to, shall we say, “deliver his telegram” in the gazebo that night.

Lessons I’ve learned from the Sound of Music
-The Nazis in Salzburg in September 1939 just didn’t care
-When you’re sixteen going on seventeen, it’s best not to get involved with Nazi youth because they will turn you in at the end of the movie unless you put out
-Governesses are man-stealing bitches (just ask the Baroness)
-While a stiff drink and a lap dance may be among the captain’s favorite things, they are not part of the song
-No one, and I mean no one, knows how to solve a problem like Maria
-The hills may be alive with the sound of music, but it could also be those mushrooms you ate