On second thought…fuck “National Blog Posting Month”…

Okay, so a few posts ago I mentioned “National Blog Posting Month” and how during it I was going to post everyday.  That lasted…hold on let me count…yep, three days.  So you know what?  I’m saying a big fuck you to NBPM, which frankly in recent years has become way too commercial anyway.  I mean, it used to be about the fucking blogging, man, you know what I’m saying?  Just a bunch of us…dirty, sweaty, pale…banging away at our laptops…at nights our frail-from-lack-of-real-exercise bodies entwining in hot, passionate, very quick, nerd sex.  But now, there’s like NBPM t-shirts, and I’m supposed to take my kid to see the NBPM Fairy at the mall, who’s clearly just some unemployed sex fiend the other 11 months of the year, and…blah, I’m just over it.

So, for serious, here’s the problem right now, folks: This blog is a place for me to rant about opinions and other things I’m passionate about, and right now I’m kind of at a “low ebb” on the creativity front, and I’m only passionate about exactly three things:

1) It’s hot out, and I’m sick of having to scoop my balls out from between my legs like a melted ice cream cone.

2) “Lost” is fucking amazing, and if I were ever alone on a deserted island with Evangeline Lilly, the friction from how hard I was banging her would be enough to create a smoke signal that could be seen from the North Pole, and finally,

3) If it wasn’t for the fact that I have to pee, I would never, ever get out of bed in the morning.  Stupid kidney’s and their whole breaking down proteins into waste, bs.

So I’m not going to be posting everyday this month.  Maybe I won’t post at all.  Or maybe I’ll post some.  Who knows?  It’s like a cliffhanger, without the suspense or intrigue or general interest.

If you are someone who really can’t get enough of my writing, I would encourage you to, first, seek therapy, and second, come see the play I wrote being performed in the Fringe Festival this year.  It’s exactly like one of my blogs, only instead of words it’s people talking, and instead of constantly referencing my genitals, I constantly reference Mike Tischers genitals.  Hurray for a cheap Fringe show plug!

The Science of Comedy…

So the other day I’m in the shower, cleaning my nether regions, and doing some work in my  head on my next play script.  That’s correct…most playwrights do their writing in the shower while soaping up their genitals.  Little known fact.  Some food for thought the next time you’re in a theater, contemplating the genius of Hamlet or Death of A Salesman.

Anyway.

I’m thinking of a particular funny line…what exactly the line is isn’t important…but it involves a shape.  The shape needs to be somewhat obscure, but not so obscure that people won’t know what it is.  And my mind keeps bouncing back and forth between “trapezoid” and “rhombus.”  Trapezoid is a funny sounding word, but rhombus, being an even more obscure shape, might be funnier.  Except I’m worried that at least a decent percentage of your average audience won’t know what a rhombus is, and a very small percentage might not even realize that a rhombus is a shape.  Disaster!

So I keep going back a forth: trapezoid, rhombus.  Rhombus, trapezoid.  Which is funnier?  Trapezoid?  Rhombus?  Or am I so completely blinded by the trapezoid/rhombus debate, that I am overlooking pentagons?  And then, all of the sudden, I realize that I’ve been standing in the shower, naked, balls in my hand, going back and forth thinking about trapezoids and rhombuses (rhombi?) for seventeen minutes.  And it was then I realized: I need a new hobby.

*****

Today as I was driving around doing some errands, I was pulling up to an intersection to get onto Highway 10, and I saw an old man in one of those little personal scooter chair things.  You know the ones that don’t even have handlebars or a front section or anything.  Basically just glorified electronic wheelchair.  Nothing that exciting, except here’s the weird part: He was driving in the middle of the road, stopped with the rest of the cars, waiting to get onto Highway 10.  And all I could think was: God damn, that little scooter must be tricked out.

I also, during this same drive, had the displeasure of encountering a crazy motorcyclist.  You know the ones.  They swerve in and out of tight spaces and basically act like that, because they are on a motorcycle, the normal rules of the road don’t apply to them.

Dear motorcyclists: This is part of the reason we have trouble "seeing" you.

So this crazy biker dude on a big old Harley swerves, and I do mean swerves, to squeeze in between me and a red van that was one lane to the right of me and only slightly ahead.  Then, unsurprisingly, the van, which had no chance of ever being able to see or know that this motorcycle was suddenly to it’s left, no matter how diligently they checked their rear view mirrors and blind spots, tries to get into my lane, almost hitting the motorcyclist.  So what does this crazy asshole do?  He gets pissed at the van, starts flipping them off, and then crazily pulls up to their right, and proceeds to start yelling at them through their window.  It was at this moment that I experienced the closest thing I have ever had to Road Rage.  This prick drives like a douche, and gets mad when someone almost hits him.  I would have yelled at him out my window, but he was too far ahead of me.  However, as he made a right turn off the road, I made sure to flip him off long and hard.  Hopefully he looked in one of his rear view mirrors and saw me.  Dick.

*****

Finally, I’d like to quickly report on Hollywood’s ongoing crusade to take fond memories of my childhood, and then squat down and take a big ole’ shit on them.  Following the insult to life that is Michael Bay’s Transformers movie, I now have to be confronted with G.I. Joe: Rise of Cobra, opening this summer.  I’m not going to taint the precious virginity of my blog site with a clip from this smut, but if you really need to see for yourself, you can look here.

(Mind you, I am in no way encouraging you to watch this clip, but just in case you don’t believe me on how bad it is, there’s your chance.)

This movie looks so bad that I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that it is, retroactively, destroying my childhood.  It’s like Stephen Sommers actually got into a time machine, traveled back to 1985, walked into my darkened bedroom, and fondled my genitals*.  I mean, why are they wearing space suits?  Why is everything in slow motion?  Why is this happening!?!?

*(I realize that this blog is sort of heavy on references to my genitals.  I apologize.)

Anyway, I’m still holding strong for a “Charles in Charge” movie.  Scott Baio’s due a comeback.

Unnecessary Censorship…

I have to admit that I really haven’t watched any late night TV shows for a good five or six years now, though I do think they can occasionally be very funny.  So this may be old news for those of you who actually keep up with this sort of stuff, but I just recently discovered a beautifully hilarious bit that Jimmy Kimmel (who, incidentally, is himself pretty funny, IMO) does on a weekly basis.  Titled “This Week in Unnecessary Censorship,” the idea is so straightforward I can’t believe no one else has thought of it: Kimmel (or, rather, his producers) take random news and video clips, and then bleep out words that don’t need to be bleeped.  The effect is rather startling; even though your brain knows these clips don’t contain swear words, it’s amazing how easily your brain fills in the forbidden word that would make sense in that spot.  Essentially, the producers can use a simple bleep to make anyone swear, from President Obama to Kathy Lee Gifford.  Here are a couple of example clips:

Along with being quite hilarious, the most impressive thing about this seemingly trifle little comedy bit is how brilliantly it illustrates the silliness of our obsession over “naughty words”…or rather, our obsession with not hearing them.  Think about it this way: Can you ever think of a time when you heard a [bleep] on a news broadcast, television show, or whatever, and didn’t immediately know exactly what word had just been bleeped?  Unless you are adorably naive, the answer has to be “no.”  Now, if you know what word is being said anyway, from the context, what exactly is the bleeping protecting us from?  Preventing having the offending word, which by the way is just a bunch of arbitrary syllables put together, from actually caressing our innocent ear drums?  To put it another way, what is the source of the offensiveness in so called “swear words?”  Is it the intent, or the literal word itself?

The only possible legitimate argument for bleeping that I can see is to protect children, who may not yet be able to “name that word.”  Fine, I suppose.  But you’re kind of just delaying the inevitable, aren’t you?  Is there really anyone over the age of say, six, out there who hasn’t already learned these words already?  If not at home, then from their more worldly friends at school?

To be clear, I’m not advocating complete and total uncensorship for TV (although, I’m not saying I’m against that, either).  The point I’m trying to make is simple: Is that annoying bleeeep! sound really necessary when someone accidentally let’s loose with a word they aren’t supposed to say on TV?  As far as I can see, they only good it does is provide Jimmy Kimmel with an awesome Friday night time-filler.

Random thoughts from the “Green Felt”

If you are someone that knows me remotely well, you will know that I am an avid poker player. Love the fucking poker. Except for one thing: if you play a lot of poker, you have to play it with mostly men. There are females who play poker, but if you go to your local card room, chances are you will find yourself in the middle of a sausage-fest that rivals that of even a monster truck rally or strip club.

After visiting the local card club today (and notching a satisfactory final table appearance), I felt compelled to riff on some random things that caught my attention:

Guys stink (literally)

It occurred to me, as I was sitting at the table at the start of the tournament, virtually holding my breath, that I hadn’t been to the card club once in the past dozen times, where I wasn’t sitting next to someone who stank like the depths of Hell.  I used to think I was just unlucky, but now I have come to the conclusion that men just, as a general rule, smell awful.  What’s up with that?  Why do guys smell so much worse than girls?  Both sexes are perspiring the same substance, are they not?  Is it a hygiene issue?  Whatever it is, it kills my soul.

Just a general rule of thumb: if you are leaving your house, and you know you will be sitting at a table with a group of relative strangers, in close proximity, for significant amount of time…maybe you wanna throw on some deodorant, or cologne, or maybe just hang one of those pine tree car air fresheners around your  neck.  Something, anything…I’m dying over here!

Guys stink (figuratively)

I don’t want to be one of those stereotypical self-hating men, but god, men say some disgusting things when women aren’t around.  Here is a dozy from today.  One guy, an obvious insecure, manly, jock type, was discussing his wife being pregnant, when he said this awesome statement:

“Yeah, I told her she could have one more, and that was it.”

Now on the surface I know this may sound like a pretty innocent, casual statement.  But let’s break it down:

“…I told her she could have…”  So…she’s having the baby?  Not you?  I mean, you’re only the FATHER for Christ’s sake, so it’s not really your responsibility.  The moment I heard this, I knew without a doubt this is one of those men who is sitting on the couch, beer in hand, while his newborn son or daughter is bawling, and yells at his wife who is busy doing 900 other things at the moment, “Hey, for Christ’s sake, get in here and take care of your kid, will you?”  Vomit.

“…one more, and that was it.” Oh, well, thank you, your Highness.  How nice of you to bestow so generosity upon your wife, that you let her have the honor of bearing one more of the children that come from your white-trash seed.  You know what your wife should do?  Tell you she’s on the pill, but not take it, and see if you STOP STICKING YOUR DICK INSIDE OF HER.  And then we will see which one of you really controls if it will be “one more” or not.

Fucking men.

Speaking of men being assholes…

If you can’t lose with class, can you at least lose with intelligence?

Here’s the deal for those of you considering taking up the beautiful game of poker, or those of you that play just casually.  It is, without question, the most important rule of playing.  Here is the rule:

Never criticize other people for how they play.  (EDIT: Unless that person is my brother-in-law, Jeremy.  Criticize him all you want…he fucking sucks.  Wins one tournament at the Venetian and thinks he’s so great…)

Just don’t do it.  And in the interest of full disclosure, I haven’t always followed this rule.  I have been guilty of breaking this one, and I always feel like a shit after I do it.  Even if you think you are being friendly, trying to give a little advice…just don’t.   It is never, ever, okay…

That being said, the only thing worse than criticizing other people’s play, is criticizing other people’s play and BEING WRONG ABOUT IT.  Seriously, you really look like an ass when you try to point out others flaws, and you are actually dead wrong yourself.  An example that I was on the receiving end of today:

With blinds at 300/600, I am sitting in the big blind, and the first player to act makes the minimum raise to 1200.  Quick No-Limit Hold ’em lesson: a minimum raise is almost always a bad idea.  It puts no pressure on the people to act after you and allows them a cheap look at a flop that might let them catch up to you.  So…

First guy min raises, everyone folds to the small blind who also calls.  At this point, I am probably calling with any two cards, as there is now 3000 chips in the pot (Initial raiser + small blind + my blind) and I only have to call 600 more.  The chance to win 3000 chips, plus possibly more after the flop, for an investment of 600 is always a great deal, and it’s even more inviting when I look down at my cards and see that I have 97, both of clubs (sooooted).  Listen, I am not a poker expert by any means, but I can tell you unequivocally that there is not a professional poker player in the world that is folding in this spot.  Never, ever, ever.

So I don’t either.  The flop rolls off Jack, 7, 7.  Sweet.  I check to the initial raiser, who makes a pretty strong 4000 chip bet into the pot.  Small blind folds, I move all-in, he snap calls, I say “I have a seven” and he says, “That sucks,” and shows pocket kings.  After the turn and river blank off, he shakes his head, and in a way that was semi-friendly, but clearly meant to be a dig, says “You called a raise with 97?  Nice call.”  (The subtext of this line: What a crappy call.)  As he walked away from the table, he was still muttering angrily about how someone can call with 97.

Well let me inform you now, good sir: it was not a good call.  It was, rather, a STANDARD CALL.  Which you would know, if you had a clue how to play.  Which you don’t, like 90% of the people that play in these tournaments, which is fine, but here’s the thing: If you don’t know how to play, SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT HOW I DO.

Incidentally I saw at least three more instances (none that I was involved in, though) of this exact scenario before the tournament ended…someone pissed about how bad someone played, when what they did was, at worst, a little unusual, and often times, totally standard.

This leads nicely to my last point…

Holy crap, live poker players are mind-shatteringly bad

There is a persistent, but pointless, debate in all online poker forums about whether so called “live” poker players (that is, players that play primarily in card rooms and casinos) or “internet” players (players that primarily play on the internet) are, overall, better than the other.  Now, I am a hobbyist playing for peanuts poker player, so I can’t speak on the higher limits, but I can say with zero reservation that at the lower levels, internet players are so much better that it’s not even funny.  I could give example after example of some of the ludicrous plays I saw today that, just from a simple, elementary math perspective, are awful, and you would never see online.  However, instead I will just tell this one awesome story, that I think encapsulates everything.

Now, even if you have never played poker in your life, you probably are aware that one of the fundamental components of poker is hiding your emotions so that other players can’t tell what you have.  That’s where the term “poker face” comes in, right?  I mean, isn’t this just stupid, simple, obvious?  Apparently not…

When we were down to 16 players, a hand came up at my table where one player raised, but still had more chips left.  It gets to this other guy (another, I must point out, jock looking faux bad-ass), who looked at his cards, and I am not even making this up, says “I’m all in,” pushes his chips excitedly in this middle, then leaps out of his seat, claps his hands, high fives his buddy, and starts celebrating like he already won something! It was the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen.  I didn’t say anything, obviously, but inside I’m thinking: “Okay, either this guy has pocket aces, or this is the most elaborate, best acted bluff I have ever seen.”  But I know acting, and this guy wasn’t acting.  He obviously had aces, maybe kings.

The original raiser tanked for a surprisingly long time, but finally folded.  As soon as he did, Excited Guy proudly flipped up his pocket aces for the table to see, as if he had done something incredible.  I guess if there is any sort of point I am getting to with this story, it’s this: If you are someone who has an interest in poker, but have been too afraid to play because you felt like everyone else would be better than you, or you don’t have a good enough “poker face,” let me inform you that there are people who play in casinos who literally jump up and down and clap their hands when they have a good hand. Again, I’m not a poker expert, but I believe that would be considered a “tell.”  So come on down and enjoy this great game!

Just please remember to wear some deodorant.

Northfield Arts Guild “Very Short Play Festival IV”…

This past May 2nd was the performance of the VSPF IV in Northfield, and despite some early scares (my sisters van breaking down on the way there, and a woman literally walking off stage in the middle of the first play of the evening), it was a great show and a blast of an experience, both for me and my cast.

After hours of furious clicking, dragging, and swearing (God, Facebook is the flakiest website ever created), I finally managed to get the video of my show, “Handle With Care,” ripped off the DVD and posted online, and here it is for your viewing pleasure (displeasure?).  The script can be read by clicking the link on the right, so you can see how the show developed from the page to the stage, if you are a nerd and interested in such things.

And huge props to the cast of the show: Kim Hostrawser (Casandra), Nikki Wakal (Jennifer), April Gage (Eve), and Andrew Nawrocki (Matt), who worked super hard on this in rehearsals and then went out there and gave a tremedous performance. Click on the video below to enjoy their work!

(Note: Like most recordings of live theater, the sound quality on this sucks. I recommend some headphones or cranking your sound to the max.)

At the ICU Movies (part 2)…

Two quick notes about my previous post:

1) I just reread it, and the grammar and spelling was atrocious.  I have gone back and edited it.  Please bear in mind I was under heavy chemical influence while writing.

2) Although it makes me inwardly cringe something fierce to sit and  explain the “logic” of one of my jokes, there seems to be some confusion about a passage in my last post that I need to address.  After relating a dream I had about a movie recently, I wrote:

…when I woke up my sheets were all wet.  Also, my cat was pregnant.  My cat’s a boy.

Apparently, some of you interpreted this to mean that in my excitement over this dream movie, I myself had impregnated my cat.  This was not my intention.  So to make clear: my sheets were wet because I wet myself over the excitement of this movie, and my cat spontaneously, and independently, became pregnant because the movie idea was so awesome.  Got that?  Two separate, independent events.  I’m not gay for my cat.

I’m  not.

Let’s take a look at a few more movies I (didn’t) see while laid up in the ICU:

Friday

K-Bell was kind enough to make me a little “hospital basket” before my stay, and included a DVD copy of Ice Cube’s seminal film work, Friday, which unfortunately I never felt well enough to watch.  It’s still sitting here next to me, in the plastic wrap, so I figured I’d do what Roger Ebert does, and just review the DVD case.  Here it is, for those of you who haven’t seen it:

All in all, I have to say this might be one of the better DVD cases I’ve seen.  The main picture summarizes what I imagine to be the plot of the movie perfectly, with both Ice Cube and a pre-Rush Hour Chris Tucker posed into a classic “Daaaaammmmn” formation.  Clearly there is some wack shit going on to their left (our right), and the DVD case entices the viewer to see what crazy hijinks are causing such a hilarious take from Cube and Tucker for themselves by watching the movie.

Also, the back of the case refers to Christ Tucker as a “box office superstar,” which is the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever read in my life, ever.

Hard Candy

I actually watched this the night before my stay in the hospital.  And all I have to say about it is: stay away from my balls, Ellen Page.

Also: Stay Away From My Balls, Ellen Page would be a great name for a gangster rap group.

Crazy Bruce’s Liquors Commercial

And finally, by far the best movie I saw while in the hospital, and perhaps one of the greatest movies…nay, one of the greatest anything, I have ever seen: this late night commercial for Crazy Bruce’s Liquors: (to give credit where credit is due, I found this on FilmDrunk.)

You didn’t actually watch the video, did you?  It’s okay, I usually skip videos when people put them in their blogs, too.  But seriously, it’s 33 seconds, and you need to see this.  Go back and watch it now.  I’ll wait.

Done?  Okay, now here is my question about this video: was the “woo woo woo” thing part of the shooting script, or improvised by Crazy Bruce? (Or the actor playing “Crazy Bruce,” whichever the case may be.)  Because honestly, just the possibility that this conversation occurred during the shooting of this commercial warms my heart:

Director (after a seventh mediocre take): I don’t know, Crazy Bruce.  I mean, it’s good and all…love the singing, love the dancing, but it just needs…something.

Crazy Bruce: Hmmm…well, I could whip my pants off and rub my balls on the camera.

Director: Nah, Larry’s Discount Mattress Emporium did that for their commercial last week.  What we need is some sort of sound effect…something to really put the “Crazy” in “Crazy Bruce.”

Crazy Bruce: A sound effect!  I think I got just the thing for you…

I love life.

Until next time, movie fans, the ICU movie theater…is closed!

At the ICU Movies…

I just arrived from my vacation (read: stay) at the ICU for cancer treatment.  It was a hellish experience, one filled with crying, crapping my own pants, and moderately hot nurses.  I will probably write on it more fully at a later date.

For the moment, however, and in the interest of full-disclosure, I need to tell you, reader, that I just got back home today, and am still absolutely fucking wasted from the drugs they had me on.  If you’d like to know how wasted, let me just inform you that it took me no fewer that half a dozen tries to italicize wasted in that last sentence.  FIRST I CAPITALIZED IT.  THEN I CAPITALIZED AND MADE IT BOLD. then i made it small but still bold. Then it was just bold. And then, finally, viola!

So…yeah…that’s how I spent the past 20 minutes of my day.

Anyway, instead of writing about boring medical stuff, I thought I’d use this space to do some….MOVIE REVIEWS! [CUE  LARGE, OVER PRETENTIOUS, HOLLYWOOD FAN-FARE HERE.]  I love writing movie reviews, and it occurs to me that I never do them on this site.  So let’s do some now, shall we?  Ha ha, isn’t that cute?  Me, pretending as if you have a choice:

A QUICK NOTE/WARNING: I was so completely blasted with either drugs or pain or illness while in the hospital that I didn’t actually finish most of these movies.  Many of them I didn’t make it through the first 15 minutes through.  One of them I didn’t even get the plastic wrap off of.  But then I figured: that’s probably not very different from the way professionals do it.  So let’s go!

Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog

Okay, quick confession: I saw this a few weeks before I got into the hospital, but I watched it again while there, and it was the perfect tonic to my suffering.  It’s short, but great.  Do you like heroes and evil professors?  Do you like singing?  Do you like Neil Patrick Harris?  Do you like the mind numbingly boring chore, laundry? (psyche! I love it!), then do yourself a favor, go to Hulu.com, and watch this very short web gem.

The world's all messed up, and he just needs to rule it.

The story is a simple one, as we follow pathologically shy but extremely ambitions Dr. Horrible (Neil Patrick Harris) as he attempts to A) Take over the world and B) Win over his dream girl Penny (Felicia Day).  His efforts on both fronts are disrupted by mega-douchebag superhero Captain Hammer (Nathan Fillion).  This short-internet only piece was directed by Joss Whedon, who brought the TV world Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, and most recently Dollhouse, along with a bunch of others I’m sure my TV nerd friends will yell at me for forgetting.  Whatever.  According to Jim is now past it’s eighth season and the brilliant Firefly gets canned after one?  Fuck you, Satan, and  your obvious  active role in human affairs.

In the Line of Fire

I was only able to make it through like the first ten minutes of this one, again on Hulu, but here is all you need to know about those first ten minutes to make you realize you need to see this movie.  The opening scene of the movie is a guy in a car, right, and he’s super super nervous.  Like, pissing his pants nervous.  So you assume he is going to meet the bad guys on some sort of undercover assignment, right?  WRONG!  Actually he is nervous because he has recently moved to Washington and is on his way to meet his new partner…Clint Fucking Eastwood. Yeah, you might be a little nervous about that.  Anyway, after showing up late, this nobody gives Eastwood a big long speech about how he’s new to the city and his wife is pregnant with triplets or some shit and he’s trying to buy a house, and Eastwood just gives him a look that communicates three things, in no uncertain terms: A) Those excuses are gay  B) You’re a pussy  C) I was banging your mom during those brief seconds you thought you were late.  The lesson here folks: don’t be late when you are meeting your new co-worker, and it’s Clint Eastwood.  In fact, you should probably just go ahead and get to whatever spot  Clint Eastwood expects  to meet you 24 hours in advance, just so there is absolutely no confusion.

Hello, Mr. Bad Guy? This will be your reading partner for this next scene, Mr. Eastwood. Oh, and PS...this is your last scene in the movie...

Another awesome thing about this movie I almost forgot to mention: the main villain is John Malkovich! This can only lead me to assume that the movie ends with a big show-down where Eastwood and Malkovich are playing Texas Hold ’em against each other, and the following exchange ensues:

A hand of Hold ’em is being played.  Malkovich deals.  He deals the river…the Ace of spades.

MALKOVICH (breaking an Oreo cookie next to his ear) :How does it feel…BIG…TOUGH…AH-MER-AH-KAN!  Does it hoit?  That ace of spades could not…have…helped…you…I think.  (He peeks daintily at his hole cards.)  No no no no, Clint East-a-vold…that last bullet did not help you.

Eastwood stares grimly at his hole cards… an 83o which he is playing because he sucks at Hold ’em.  Then he remembers that he’s Clint Fucking Eastwood and doesn’t play queer games like Texas Hold ’em, whips out his .44, and plugs Malkovich right between the eyes.

EASTWOOD (rasping, obviously) : That bullet helped me.

I’m getting way too tired now, so I will wrap this blog up tomorrow with reviews for Friday, Confessions of a Superhero, and Hard Candy, and maybe some other shit I can’t think of right now.  So let me just end this first part with an idea I had for a movie once.  I dreamed it, actually.  It was an action movie, and it starred Clint Eastwood, Chuck Norris, and Randy Bell.  It was very very short, because they found and obliterated the villains so quickly, but when I woke up my sheets were all wet.  Also, my cat was pregnant.

My cat’s a boy.

Until next time, movie fans, the ICU movie theater…is closed!

The Tubelessness Problem… (Plus: The Joker turns over a new leaf…)

I don’t think any of us like thinking about the homeless.  I know I don’t.  It’s a depressing problem that distracts me from the important parts of my life, like deciding whether to flat-call or 3-bet preflop with QQ and the new episode of “24.”  Seriously, I don’t have time to think about depressing poor people with that shit on my mind.  But when I do think about them, it’s hard not to wonder what type of circumstances force someone into that sort of life, and what line of thinking leads them to beg, prostitute themselves, or even steal.  Recently, I got a taste of how one might do things they never imagined in a desperate situation.  (Though this taste, to be fair, came in “spoiled white boy without a care in the world” flavor.)

Tugs at your heart strings, doesn't it? I mean, it doesn't tug hard enough to make you want to do something about it...but enough to make you speed up so you don't have to look at it as long.

I recently made my second ever trip to Water Park of America, which, as readers of this blog know, is “America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!” and also may or may not be owned by a floating-or-very-tall ancient chinese man.  Now if you have never been to Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!), you need to know that they have two different types of water slides: the regular kind where you just scoot down on your bum and/or back, and tube slides, which are bigger slides you ride down on an inflatable inter-tube.  You also need to know that the regular slides kind of suck: the joints where the pieces of slide come together have a tendency to scratch up your bum and/or back.  The tube slides, however, are the bomb, but they also have a problem: you need a tube.  The tubes at Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!) are distributed in a very random, unorganized, and wonderfully American way: it’s first come, first serve, and once you have a tube you keep it for as long as you can keep your hands on it.

So yesterday, K-Bell and I find ourselves at Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!), desperately wanting to go down the tube slides (as we had already torn our backsides up something fierce on the regular slides), but lacking a tube.  And as it was a Saturday, the evening, and plenty busy, there was not a spare tube to be found.  Every tube in the joint was in the greedy hands of some snotty eight year old or cute couple or, in rare cases, entire families, who piled onto a single tube five at a time and floated through the water park like some sort of fat, human barge.

Plan A for K-Bell and I to take ourselves out of the rank of the “tubeless” and become proud, responsible tube owners: begging.  We stood along the shores of the large pool where the two tube slides emptied it’s blessed riders out, thinking someone coming off the ride might be tube-slided out and decide to pass their bounty on to us.  The problem: there was a crowd almost three people deep waiting at that exact spot.  Of course, I thought, this is the most obvious begging spot.  We’ll never get a tube here.

So we searched for less obvious spots to set up our pity-shop.  The mouth between the stream and the wave pool…nope, already a fat lady and her fat kids standing there, imploring everyone who floated past for a little tube charity.  Moving further up the stream that went around the water park, we found fewer fellow tubeless to compete with, but also comparatively fewer tubers from which to attempt to scam off of.  It was the ultimate Catch-22.

Begging clearly wasn’t going to work.  The next level we sunk to: prostitution.  “Go up to one of these little boys and tell them you’ll show them your boobs for their tube,” I suggested to K-Bell.  I thought that was a fair trade, and would probably make the decade of some lucky nine or ten year old.

“Why don’t you find some little girl on a tube and show her your penis?” K-Bell countered.  I considered this briefly, and wondered if an evening of magical tube sliding would be worth jail time and having to spend the rest of my life knocking on my neighbors doors and greeting them with, “Hello, I just moved into the neighborhood, and I am required by law to inform you that…”

Prostitution was out.  It was at this point that I began to genuinely resent the people with tubes.  Each and every one of them just looked…arrogant.  Smug.  Floating past me, on their tubes, splashing happily.  Cocky, unconcerned in their tube-filled world.  I noticed that the lucky tubers seemed to avoid eye-contact with those unfortunate tubeless.  Why the hell did these assholes deserve a tube, when I have none, I wondered to myself?  Many of the tubers were not even going down the tube slide! They were just floating pointlessly, not even using the tube for it’s God-given purpose.  One group we walked past had their tube leaned up again the rail, covered in wet towels, while they smugly ate dinner.  What a waste!  I didn’t just resent the people with tubes…I hated them!  They thought they were so much better than us, just because they lucked out and got a tube!  Fuckers fuckers fuckers!

About the tubes: there are two different types.  Regular, and double tubes, which is like two of them joined together, Siamese style.  These double tubes could be used by two people (such as K-Bell and I) to go down the slides together.  As K-Bell noted, there were several people, usually small children, using double tubes by themselves.  Again, what a waste!  K-Bell came up with the great idea of asking two of these people to join up, and ride one of these double tubes together, so that we could use a double tube.  We contemplated this “redistribution” of the tube wealth, and although it sounded great to us, we realized that the tube owners would be unlikely to just voluntarily share one tube when they already had one all to themselves.

Though it shames me greatly, I must confess that at this point I had a dark thought: the only way K-Bell and I would ever acquire the precious tube we needed to enjoy tube-sliding goodness…was to take someone  else’s.  I looked around, trying to find someone who might carelessly turn their back on their tube, allowing me to quickly grab it in their moment of inattention and run off with it.  Or, perhaps a small child or elderly person, who wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight…it would be so easy to dump one of them into the water, and as they attempted to resurface and regain their bearings, steal away with their precious water-vehicle.

Alas, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Eventually, realizing it was hopeless and that we would never be able to enter that wonderful, magical world of full-fledged tube ownership, K-Bell and I left the park, our heads hung low, our hearts broken, and our minds empty of any beautiful, laughing, tube-sliding memories.  I don’t think anyone with a tube noticed we were gone.

*****

A quick bonus story, unrelated to the one above except for the fact that it occurred while K-Bell and I were eating dinner that night.  This story either illustrates the difference between boys and girls, or illustrates the tragic lack of “Batman” knowledge being taught to our young.  You choose.

When I was recovering from my surgery in August, K-Bell, knowing my love for Batman, bought me one of the Batman action figures that were popular at the time due to the recent release of the movie “The Dark Knight.”  During dinner, she told me that for my upcoming stay in the hospital, she had looked for a “Joker” action figure to go with it, but was unable to find one.  She ended this story by sarcastically lamenting, “So Batman won’t have a friend to go with him.”  This ridiculous statement prompted the following conversation between us, which I am paraphrasing:

Me: Batman and Joker aren’t friends.

K-Bell: Well, you know what I mean.  Sometimes they’re friends.

Me: I most definitely don’t know what you mean.  They are never friends.

K-Bell: Sure, when you were a little kid, you know, didn’t you ever [she mimics enacting a fight with the two action figures] but then sometimes you’re all like [she mimics having Batman and Joker holding hands or having tea together or something] “Oh, hey, we’re friends today.”

Me: No.  Never.  Batman and Joker are never ever ever friends.

K-Bell: Never?  So they just keep fighting forever?  The Joker never learns his lesson or something?

Me: No.  Never

Bless your heart, K-Bell: the only person I know who has so much faith in humanity and goodness that she thinks the motherfucking Joker can turn over a new leaf.

A tribute to my lesser known Facebook “friends”…

When I started using MySpace, and later Facebook, I made it a point of pride that I did not accept as “friends” on these sites people whom I did not consider genuine friends in real life.  I wasn’t going to be accepting my co-workers cousin, my old babysitter, or random people who just happened to share keywords in the “Interests” section of my profile, just to bolster my friend count.  As time has passed, my standards have laxed incredibly, as I’ve just started accepting just about any and all friend requests, not so much because I care about having a lot of friends on a social networking website, but just because I always see the request, shrug my shoulders, and say, “Why the hell not?”

My downward spiral into extreme Facebook friend whoring hit a nadir last week, when I accepted the friendship request of “R.H.”  I have stared at his profile for a solid ten minutes straight now, and for the love of Jebus, I have no fucking clue who the hell R.H. is.  He graduated from my high school the same year I did, apparently.  Did we have classes together?  Were we best friends and I just blocked it out? (Not inconceivable, as I have intentionally blocked much of high school from my memories.)  Who are you, R.H.?  And more importantly…why the hell am I your friend on Facebook?

In my experience, Facebook friends come in three standard varieties.  They are:

Type I- Flesh & Blood Friends: These are your friends on Facebook that you have regular contact with in the “real world.”  Ironically, you very often will communicate with these friends the least on Facebook, due to your real world interactions with them.

Type II- Hurray!  I reconnected with _____ Friends: These are people who you were probably once good friends with in real life, but due to pesky physical world circumstances (moving, marriage, graduation, prison sentence) have no contact with in the real world anymore.  However, you still care about these people, and are excited to use the Interwebz to be able to socialize with them again.  These are the Facebook friends you will probably spend most of your time messaging, IMimg, wall-vandalizing, etc.

Type III- Oh, hey…it’s you.  I sort of, kind of, think I remember you.  Oh, you want to be Facebook friends?  Um…yeah, okay, I guess I don’t see any reason not to…Friends: You have friends like this on your profile, don’t try to deny it.  It’s okay, we all have them.  It’s nothing to be ashamed about.  Lately I’ve noticed I have many more of these friends than I ever would have imagined.  I literally have “friended” people that I have not sent one single piece of electronic correspondence with.  So, as a tribute to my Type III friends, and everyone’s Type III friends everywhere, I present to you a poem: “The Ballad of Tim Gage’s Lesser Known Friends”*

*Yes, poetry nerds, I know that technically a “ballad” is a poem that tells a story, and this poem does not.  But I like the word “ballad” and if you can’t handle that, please direct all your complaints to Free Time’s sister site, www.gofuckyourself.com

The Ballad of Tim Gage’s Lesser Known Friends

A Facebook Poem

In alphabetical order,

I’ll take them off my list,

and with some solemn prose

admit that they exist.

We start out with J.A.

I don’t think we’ve had chance to talk.

But according to some who know you,

you’re a bitch to all that walk.

H.C., I made you famous

when I quoted you in a blog.

Your constant right-wing status updates

make me want to kill my dog.

The next is a girl from high school,

I may have sat next to her in class.

K.D. I remember three things about you:

Nice face, great tits, C- ass.

As I mentioned in the intro,

R.H. to me is a stranger.

Are you the guy I introduced my prom-date to,

and when I used the restroom tried to bang her?

S.J. I do remember,

a sweet girl back from high school.

According to your profile you like camping, snowshoeing, and the outdoors.

That’s all I know about you.

H.K. is the daughter

of a guy I did a show with.

If she doesn’t stop sending me “Lil Green Patch” requests,

she’s getting un-friended with a quickness.

I’m getting tired now, so double time:

L.N., you had a crush on me, back yonder.

K.B., you’re friends with Nikki W.,

Y.T. you’re friends with Amber.

It’s strange to call people “friends”

with whom you never even speak.

I guess I can always hit “Decline.”

I think I’ll start…next week.

Added content…

I decided as long as I have this nifty webspace all my own, I’d add some more, not-necessarily-blog-related, content.  Currently all I have up are two short play scripts I have written: “How Much For the Head of Ted Williams?” which was produced as part of the Lakeshore’s 10-Minute Play Festival last June, and “Handle With Care” which was produced by me in my bedroom using stuffed animals and one of those brown paper bag puppets you make in kindergarten.  You can find this additional content on the right hand side of my page with all the other links, under the heading “Tim’s Non-Blog Related Writing.”  Hopefully soon I will get some of my fiction and non-fiction work up…just as soon as I can find where that stuff is buried…

So, if you enjoy reading this blog, you might be interested in reading some of my other work.  If you don’t enjoy reading this blog, you might be interested in kissing my ass.