Crappy poems to pass the time:
Haiku
Cloudy, cold and gray…
Six weeks till Opening Day.
Winter, go away.
Blah
Dunes and waves and salt and sand -
Hot dogs, beer, the peanut man.
Baseball games and Cape Cod trips,
Tanning oil and double dips.
Instead I’m stuck in winter’s throes
With SAD and a runny nose.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Friday, February 25, 2005
Short and Sweet
Blech. It's Friday for everyone else in the world but it's Monday for me. Cue the Boomtown Rats.
Isn't it time someone took the pope to a farm so he can chase rabbits and play with all the other popes?
Werthers: the official candy of NAMBLA. (Am I the only one who thinks those commercials are creepy?)
Isn't it time someone took the pope to a farm so he can chase rabbits and play with all the other popes?
Werthers: the official candy of NAMBLA. (Am I the only one who thinks those commercials are creepy?)
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Hardly Working
This week on Jeopardy is Ultimate Tournament of Champions Week. I think it should be Ultimate Fighting Tournament of Champions Week, I’d like to see Ken Jennings kick some ass in that.
I propose an Apprentice drinking game in which you have to drink every time someone says “outside the box."
What I did at work tonight: watched The Apprentice, read through 4 week's worth of wedding announcements on Timesunion.com (did not know anyone), watched Sex and the City, tried to stem the American Idol-induced bleeding in my ears, ate a Twix bar, contemplated suicide-by-stapler, thought about Amstel Light, checked my email 9,387 times (number of emails received: 3), read the Sports Guy.
I propose an Apprentice drinking game in which you have to drink every time someone says “outside the box."
What I did at work tonight: watched The Apprentice, read through 4 week's worth of wedding announcements on Timesunion.com (did not know anyone), watched Sex and the City, tried to stem the American Idol-induced bleeding in my ears, ate a Twix bar, contemplated suicide-by-stapler, thought about Amstel Light, checked my email 9,387 times (number of emails received: 3), read the Sports Guy.
To think I left Boston and my cushy 11-7, weekends-off gig for all this!
Crap! I just realized I missed the One Day at a Time Reunion!!! Wop on your feet, y’all.
Mouse Alert: Green = Guarded
Monday, February 21, 2005
Odd Couple
To paraphrase the immortal Norm Peterson: "Roommates. You can't live with them... pass the beer nuts." Last year, in a fit of insanity, I agreed to move in with a roommate to "save money" for "law school."
I hope the following will serve as a warning to others.
Six More Weeks of Winter
I generally try to spend as little time as possible in the house on weekends, because the alternative is watching my roommate hump her boyfriend on the couch to whatever crappy movie is On Demand. Seriously. That’s all they do. Sometimes they go out to Target, or Hollywood Video, but usually it’s the couch, blinds drawn, her hand on his dick and the TV volume turned up to 4 billion. I know this is New England, and it’s winter, and the weather sucks, but for the love of God—go to a movie or something.
So far this week, I’ve been lucky. She’s inexplicibly spent every night since Monday at his house. Let me clarify that. She’s spent every night since Monday at his parents' house, where he still lives.
In any case, I have a feeling my luck is on a bus out of town.
Friday, 7:32 p.m.
I am lying low this weekend. Time to reclaim the couch. I arrive home with a bottle of wine and the first season of the Sopranos on DVD. (I am a winner!) Her car is not in the driveway, but out front. That could be good or bad.
7:33 p.m.
Opening the front door…slooooowly…ahhhh…she is alone. Yay.
9:30 p.m.
Episode One of the Sopranos. The phone rings. It’s my mom, so I don’t answer it. Cokehead*, who’d been asleep on the other couch, leaps up and asks who it was. Calm down, crazy, I’m sure he’ll call at 4 a.m. when he’s fucked up. She staggers off to bed.
Saturday, 1:30 a.m.
5 Sopranos episodes down, 8 to go. Bed. No Freddie. Thank God.
12:26 p.m.
I am checking email when I hear his voice. When the hell did he get here? He wasn’t here when I went to bed last night. She was watching TV alone on the couch when I got up this morning. Maybe when I went out for coffee? Maybe she really did go get him in the middle of the night? What the fuck?!!
12:42 p.m.
Fortunately, they are leaving.
3:19 p.m.
Putting away groceries. An overwhelming sense of dread and nausea tells me they will be back any minute. At least I got to the TV first and a Red Sox spring training game is on.
Hello, Johnny Damon.
3:33 p.m.
ARGH.
They are back. Hi Freddie, it’s great to see you too. You’re looking well. How’s that thing where you live at my house, use my computer during the day while I’m at work—that’s W-O-R-K, in case you’re writing it down—and yet don’t speak to me? How’s that going??
Great!
4:39 p.m.
I am on the phone with the cable company. “Yes, the wire is connected to the TV. Yes, the freakin’ thing is plugged in. Yes, I’m pretty sure there was cable in this room before. I will double check with my roommate.”
4:40 p.m.
Knock, knock on her door. I know she’s in there because HER TV IS VERY LOUD.
“Just a minute!” [Rustle, rustle, grunt]
[RUSTLE]
Jesus Christ, it’s 4 o’clock in the fucking afternoon.
Never mind!
6:27 p.m.
Returning from my walk, I see that her car is gone. I’ve got ¾ of a bottle of wine, City Confidential, and 8 more episodes of the Sopranos. Life is good!
11:07 p.m.
Oh Christ. They’re home. But I’ve got a nice little wine buzz so what the hey. She’s trashed and chatty. Oh my God! I think I just saw a mouse! Kill it!! Oh wait, it was just Freddie scurrying into her room before my cat could get him.
She’s got a 12-pack of Bud Light cans and a bottle of Malibu for Freddie. The store must have been out of wine coolers.
11:47 p.m.
I am still watching the Sopranos. She comes out of her room to get another beer and smoke a cigarette. She stands by the window in the kitchen and we chat about the show. By the way, she says, Freddie doesn’t like The Sopranos because of how they portray Italian-Americans.
What?
That is dumb on so many levels. Not least of which is that this is a kid who is inordinately proud of the fact he is a “guinea from The Lake,” and who continually quotes the Godfather.
(Which portrayed Italians as…what was that again? As mobsters?) Shut up, Freddie.
Which brings us to the highlight of my weekend:
Sunday, 12:02 a.m.
Cokehead and I are still talking. I am lying on the couch, she’s smoking by the kitchen window. He comes halfway out of her bedroom, waves his empty glass at her, puts it down on the stereo speaker, then scuttles back into her room and shuts the door.
For a minute I thought the Shiraz was making me hallucinate, but he did in fact leave his glass on the speaker so she could come get it and make him another Malibu drink. Malibu, for Christ’s sake. If you’re gonna be a cocksucker, at least drink Wild Turkey.
The saddest thing is, she made it.
(And that, my friends, will be the last time we see Freddie this weekend. Although by my saying that, you would assume that means he went home. Alas, he was here the whole time. I heard him. I saw her bring him drinks and food, but I did not see the elusive Moronis Lakis the rest of the weekend.)
12:16 a.m.
Did I mention I heard him? Yeah they’re going at it again. That whole “bring me more Malibu, Bitch,” must be a turn-on.
1:45 a.m.
Fucking rabbits.
7:47 p.m.
Still no sightings. I heard that if Freddie sees his shadow there will be six more weeks of winter.
Monday, 7:06 p.m.
I just never know what I’m coming home to. Surely if he spent the whole weekend, he won’t be there tonight? Right? Right???
7:17 p.m.
Awww!
Freddie the Rat, sporting a two-day growth of beard and a wild, hollow look, as though he’d just spent the last 48 hours in his girlfriend’s bedroom…oh wait…is sitting at the dining room table struggling with the alphabet. She is staring at him dreamily, stroking his arm. They are discussing the little known fact that bus drivers often change their routes depending on what time of day it is, which I guess is conceivable. I mean sometimes the bus doesn’t show up for, like, 45 minutes, and I wonder where it is. Next time I’ll know it’s on an alternative route. Or maybe there is a parallel universe. Every so often they whisper, which is understandable, because if I were saying things that dumb, I wouldn’t want anyone else to hear me either. I’m trying to heat up dinner, but I feel really uncomfortable. I’m waiting for them to start fucking on the dining room table. They’ve gone the entire ten minutes I’ve been home NOT fucking, so I assume it’s only a matter of time.
7:30 p.m.
I am watching the Simpsons. I’m actually waiting for the Freddie to mention he doesn’t like the Simpsons because of the way they portray Cartoon-Americans, but he’s too busy trying to write in cursive and doesn’t notice. I wonder if, when he’s watching TV, he looks in the back to see where the tiny little people are.
7:35 p.m.
Again with the whispering. WHY?? Is she pregnant? Does he have genital warts? Oh, my mistake, she asked him if there are any movies out on video he wants to see. That IS top secret.
7:37 p.m.
I guess my glaring worked because they go into her room. I give her door the finger. I keep hoping I’ll get caught doing that, but so far no luck.
Saturday, noon
I run into Cokehead as I’m leaving for Albany. She is upset because Freddie got a job. In Miami! He is leaving Thursday! I sing all the way to the New York border.
Sunday, 2:43 p.m.
Well, it’s been three whole weeks since Freddie the Rat left for Miami with $300 from my dresser and my dead grandma’s diamond earrings. It’s worth it though. He’s gone, and I can be entertained by Cokehead’s alternative explanations for the missing stuff: the cable guy took it; the guy upstairs sneaked down one night and went through my dresser—oh yeah, and she’s missing some black pants and two porno movies (what??), so obviously Someone is Fucking With Us. Because there’s NO WAY the guy with NO JOB who used to hang out at our house alone ALL DAY, and who was LEAVING TOWN took it.
So anyway, it’s also been three weeks since I’ve had the pleasure of listening to them fuck…until now. Here’s some advice…if you’re coming home in the middle of a 24-hour coke binge, and you’re planning to have ear-splitting phone sex, do your roommate a favor by DOUBLE CHECKING TO MAKE SURE SHE’S NOT HOME. Thank you.
Monday, three weeks later, 8:30 p.m.
The phone keeps ringing one ring, then nothing, then ringing again. The caller ID shows a 305 area code each time. This has been going on for a while. I have a feeling that Freddie’s been trying to call, but has been getting confused about what to do with the phone after the dialing part.
Tuesday, 9:23 p.m.
Hmmm. There’s a strange pickup truck (of course it’s a truck) in front of the house. Cokehead’s car is in the driveway. Inside, I find no one, but there are empty beer bottles on the counter. Fishy. The back porch! I peek out and she is out there…with a guy. A new guy. The torch is passed.
*Names have been changed, but not too much.
I hope the following will serve as a warning to others.
Six More Weeks of Winter
I generally try to spend as little time as possible in the house on weekends, because the alternative is watching my roommate hump her boyfriend on the couch to whatever crappy movie is On Demand. Seriously. That’s all they do. Sometimes they go out to Target, or Hollywood Video, but usually it’s the couch, blinds drawn, her hand on his dick and the TV volume turned up to 4 billion. I know this is New England, and it’s winter, and the weather sucks, but for the love of God—go to a movie or something.
So far this week, I’ve been lucky. She’s inexplicibly spent every night since Monday at his house. Let me clarify that. She’s spent every night since Monday at his parents' house, where he still lives.
In any case, I have a feeling my luck is on a bus out of town.
Friday, 7:32 p.m.
I am lying low this weekend. Time to reclaim the couch. I arrive home with a bottle of wine and the first season of the Sopranos on DVD. (I am a winner!) Her car is not in the driveway, but out front. That could be good or bad.
7:33 p.m.
Opening the front door…slooooowly…ahhhh…she is alone. Yay.
9:30 p.m.
Episode One of the Sopranos. The phone rings. It’s my mom, so I don’t answer it. Cokehead*, who’d been asleep on the other couch, leaps up and asks who it was. Calm down, crazy, I’m sure he’ll call at 4 a.m. when he’s fucked up. She staggers off to bed.
Saturday, 1:30 a.m.
5 Sopranos episodes down, 8 to go. Bed. No Freddie. Thank God.
12:26 p.m.
I am checking email when I hear his voice. When the hell did he get here? He wasn’t here when I went to bed last night. She was watching TV alone on the couch when I got up this morning. Maybe when I went out for coffee? Maybe she really did go get him in the middle of the night? What the fuck?!!
12:42 p.m.
Fortunately, they are leaving.
3:19 p.m.
Putting away groceries. An overwhelming sense of dread and nausea tells me they will be back any minute. At least I got to the TV first and a Red Sox spring training game is on.
Hello, Johnny Damon.
3:33 p.m.
ARGH.
They are back. Hi Freddie, it’s great to see you too. You’re looking well. How’s that thing where you live at my house, use my computer during the day while I’m at work—that’s W-O-R-K, in case you’re writing it down—and yet don’t speak to me? How’s that going??
Great!
4:39 p.m.
I am on the phone with the cable company. “Yes, the wire is connected to the TV. Yes, the freakin’ thing is plugged in. Yes, I’m pretty sure there was cable in this room before. I will double check with my roommate.”
4:40 p.m.
Knock, knock on her door. I know she’s in there because HER TV IS VERY LOUD.
“Just a minute!” [Rustle, rustle, grunt]
[RUSTLE]
Jesus Christ, it’s 4 o’clock in the fucking afternoon.
Never mind!
6:27 p.m.
Returning from my walk, I see that her car is gone. I’ve got ¾ of a bottle of wine, City Confidential, and 8 more episodes of the Sopranos. Life is good!
11:07 p.m.
Oh Christ. They’re home. But I’ve got a nice little wine buzz so what the hey. She’s trashed and chatty. Oh my God! I think I just saw a mouse! Kill it!! Oh wait, it was just Freddie scurrying into her room before my cat could get him.
She’s got a 12-pack of Bud Light cans and a bottle of Malibu for Freddie. The store must have been out of wine coolers.
11:47 p.m.
I am still watching the Sopranos. She comes out of her room to get another beer and smoke a cigarette. She stands by the window in the kitchen and we chat about the show. By the way, she says, Freddie doesn’t like The Sopranos because of how they portray Italian-Americans.
What?
That is dumb on so many levels. Not least of which is that this is a kid who is inordinately proud of the fact he is a “guinea from The Lake,” and who continually quotes the Godfather.
(Which portrayed Italians as…what was that again? As mobsters?) Shut up, Freddie.
Which brings us to the highlight of my weekend:
Sunday, 12:02 a.m.
Cokehead and I are still talking. I am lying on the couch, she’s smoking by the kitchen window. He comes halfway out of her bedroom, waves his empty glass at her, puts it down on the stereo speaker, then scuttles back into her room and shuts the door.
For a minute I thought the Shiraz was making me hallucinate, but he did in fact leave his glass on the speaker so she could come get it and make him another Malibu drink. Malibu, for Christ’s sake. If you’re gonna be a cocksucker, at least drink Wild Turkey.
The saddest thing is, she made it.
(And that, my friends, will be the last time we see Freddie this weekend. Although by my saying that, you would assume that means he went home. Alas, he was here the whole time. I heard him. I saw her bring him drinks and food, but I did not see the elusive Moronis Lakis the rest of the weekend.)
12:16 a.m.
Did I mention I heard him? Yeah they’re going at it again. That whole “bring me more Malibu, Bitch,” must be a turn-on.
1:45 a.m.
Fucking rabbits.
7:47 p.m.
Still no sightings. I heard that if Freddie sees his shadow there will be six more weeks of winter.
Monday, 7:06 p.m.
I just never know what I’m coming home to. Surely if he spent the whole weekend, he won’t be there tonight? Right? Right???
7:17 p.m.
Awww!
Freddie the Rat, sporting a two-day growth of beard and a wild, hollow look, as though he’d just spent the last 48 hours in his girlfriend’s bedroom…oh wait…is sitting at the dining room table struggling with the alphabet. She is staring at him dreamily, stroking his arm. They are discussing the little known fact that bus drivers often change their routes depending on what time of day it is, which I guess is conceivable. I mean sometimes the bus doesn’t show up for, like, 45 minutes, and I wonder where it is. Next time I’ll know it’s on an alternative route. Or maybe there is a parallel universe. Every so often they whisper, which is understandable, because if I were saying things that dumb, I wouldn’t want anyone else to hear me either. I’m trying to heat up dinner, but I feel really uncomfortable. I’m waiting for them to start fucking on the dining room table. They’ve gone the entire ten minutes I’ve been home NOT fucking, so I assume it’s only a matter of time.
7:30 p.m.
I am watching the Simpsons. I’m actually waiting for the Freddie to mention he doesn’t like the Simpsons because of the way they portray Cartoon-Americans, but he’s too busy trying to write in cursive and doesn’t notice. I wonder if, when he’s watching TV, he looks in the back to see where the tiny little people are.
7:35 p.m.
Again with the whispering. WHY?? Is she pregnant? Does he have genital warts? Oh, my mistake, she asked him if there are any movies out on video he wants to see. That IS top secret.
7:37 p.m.
I guess my glaring worked because they go into her room. I give her door the finger. I keep hoping I’ll get caught doing that, but so far no luck.
Saturday, noon
I run into Cokehead as I’m leaving for Albany. She is upset because Freddie got a job. In Miami! He is leaving Thursday! I sing all the way to the New York border.
Sunday, 2:43 p.m.
Well, it’s been three whole weeks since Freddie the Rat left for Miami with $300 from my dresser and my dead grandma’s diamond earrings. It’s worth it though. He’s gone, and I can be entertained by Cokehead’s alternative explanations for the missing stuff: the cable guy took it; the guy upstairs sneaked down one night and went through my dresser—oh yeah, and she’s missing some black pants and two porno movies (what??), so obviously Someone is Fucking With Us. Because there’s NO WAY the guy with NO JOB who used to hang out at our house alone ALL DAY, and who was LEAVING TOWN took it.
So anyway, it’s also been three weeks since I’ve had the pleasure of listening to them fuck…until now. Here’s some advice…if you’re coming home in the middle of a 24-hour coke binge, and you’re planning to have ear-splitting phone sex, do your roommate a favor by DOUBLE CHECKING TO MAKE SURE SHE’S NOT HOME. Thank you.
Monday, three weeks later, 8:30 p.m.
The phone keeps ringing one ring, then nothing, then ringing again. The caller ID shows a 305 area code each time. This has been going on for a while. I have a feeling that Freddie’s been trying to call, but has been getting confused about what to do with the phone after the dialing part.
Tuesday, 9:23 p.m.
Hmmm. There’s a strange pickup truck (of course it’s a truck) in front of the house. Cokehead’s car is in the driveway. Inside, I find no one, but there are empty beer bottles on the counter. Fishy. The back porch! I peek out and she is out there…with a guy. A new guy. The torch is passed.
*Names have been changed, but not too much.
Yahoo This
Well, it's been a bad day for Sandra Dee, Hunter S. Thompson, Bonnie Raitt's dad and the guy in Alaska who got his dick cut off. Although my day ran the gamut from boring to excruciating, I'm happy to report that I did not get my dick cut off. It's true, I don't have a dick, but if I did, I would call it a "cock."
Here are some topics I hope to address in the near future, barring any genital mutilations or blowing out of my brains:
The Red Sox need to shut up about A-Rod.Who will be my next baseball boyfriend now that Johnny Damon and
Mikey *cough* not gay *cough* P. are married? (Not to each other!)
My insatiable lust for all things leopard print.
Why the Fountain Restaurant is the best place in the entire world.
And whatever other tripe I can come up with while under the influence of various intoxicants.
Mouse Alert: Yellow = Elevated
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