So I was having one of those perfectly pleasant Friday nights, a laid-back evening sandwiched between an especially challenging work week and a much-anticipated visit from far-flung friends. It's cold outside, and I'm a little sniffly from what is either an imminent cold or a burgeoning allergy to secondhand marijuana smoke, so it felt like a good night to stay in, make some soup (butternut squash with spicy sausage), try a new cocktail from my special new recipe book, and put some serious hours into my new television project (Doctor Who).
But then...you know how sometimes your TV ends up on some random channel after you've been watching your DVR? Well, I guess mine was on whatever retarded station broadcasts America's Funniest Home Videos, which (a) still exists and (b) is no longer hosted by Bob Saget. I was marveling at these facts as I walked through my living room when something happened to change my perspective on this Friday night at home: a video clip of a German Shepherd farting in a bathtub.
If farts could talk, I think the German Shepherd's would have said something like this: Welcome to Friday night, straight-up thirties style.
26 February 2010
21 February 2010
meet my nemeses: the neighbors
I'm not sure I've ever faced nemeses so fierce as my stupid fucking hippie neighbors, whose apartment has, in the two-plus years I've lived here, alternately smelled like cat pee and pot. I don't know if they've lost their jobs or come down with cancer or what, but lately their place smells so strongly of weed that I find myself longing for the halcyon days of eau de cat pee.
Listen, I truly believe it's everyone's god given right to smoke pot once in a while. I mean, I never really cared for those days when the hall smelled like a dorm, but whatever. There are certain concessions one must make when one lives in an apartment building.
Over the last few weeks, though, it hasn't been just the hall. I smell it in my own apartment now all the time. (This on the third floor, while my nemeses are two floors down!) And the frequency has increased from just a few nights a week to every blessed day, even in the MORNING. This not only makes me crazy but, worse, it has been giving me headaches and making me nauseous. And since I work from home it is relentless.
So, you guys, help me out. I know I sound like a big jerk but I'm going crazy here. Does anyone have any advice for how to deal with this situation? I'm at my wit's end.
Listen, I truly believe it's everyone's god given right to smoke pot once in a while. I mean, I never really cared for those days when the hall smelled like a dorm, but whatever. There are certain concessions one must make when one lives in an apartment building.
Over the last few weeks, though, it hasn't been just the hall. I smell it in my own apartment now all the time. (This on the third floor, while my nemeses are two floors down!) And the frequency has increased from just a few nights a week to every blessed day, even in the MORNING. This not only makes me crazy but, worse, it has been giving me headaches and making me nauseous. And since I work from home it is relentless.
So, you guys, help me out. I know I sound like a big jerk but I'm going crazy here. Does anyone have any advice for how to deal with this situation? I'm at my wit's end.
15 February 2010
fuck the olympics
You guys. I have spent the last few days in the suburbs visiting my great aunt and some other relatives who are in town to see her. As it turns out, the “hotel room” my aunt and uncle booked for me is in fact a studio apartment in her assisted living home.
This may be uncharitable (even for me), but the simple truth is that I’m afraid of old people. Here on my ward in the assisted living home, there’s this whole nightmare vibe of, like, zombie dormitory meets Eli Roth’s Hostel. I mean, wild-eyed seniors staggering through the halls is one thing, but whatever is going on behind some of those doors is quite another.
In addition to praying in restaurants, one of my family’s favorite activities seems to be watching the Olympics. Just when I thought there wasn’t anything worse than watching sports, NBC goes all Faces of Death and airs the footage of that poor luger. WTF? Who wants to watch that?
The answer, evidently, is most people.
The worst part is that I think Bob Costas’s snuff film is an apt symbol for the whole sick sorry affair. Listen, I’m not trying to be contrarian or cute. I’m not even exaggerating. I think the Olympics are totally grotesque. I know the consensus is that these elite athletes have accomplished something, but as far as I can tell they are monomaniacs who are willing to sacrifice everything for...what exactly? Olympic athletes are very, very good at one thing, and very, very bad at the rest of life.
They all have different versions of the same story. Sally Olympian has had three knee surgeries just this year. Her mom worked three jobs so she could pay for lessons or whatever. She works out at least eight hours every day. She is doing something so unnatural with her body that she will probably be crippled by middle age.
Um, Sally? Maybe you shouldn’t do that! Also: maybe people shouldn’t admire you for doing that! You’re kind of a freak!
I’m sorry, America, but maybe some guy who skates around in a circle for 12 hours a day like some kind of douchey Rain Man shouldn’t be our next national hero. Besides, body dysmorphia and soul patches are so 1992.
This may be uncharitable (even for me), but the simple truth is that I’m afraid of old people. Here on my ward in the assisted living home, there’s this whole nightmare vibe of, like, zombie dormitory meets Eli Roth’s Hostel. I mean, wild-eyed seniors staggering through the halls is one thing, but whatever is going on behind some of those doors is quite another.
In addition to praying in restaurants, one of my family’s favorite activities seems to be watching the Olympics. Just when I thought there wasn’t anything worse than watching sports, NBC goes all Faces of Death and airs the footage of that poor luger. WTF? Who wants to watch that?
The answer, evidently, is most people.
The worst part is that I think Bob Costas’s snuff film is an apt symbol for the whole sick sorry affair. Listen, I’m not trying to be contrarian or cute. I’m not even exaggerating. I think the Olympics are totally grotesque. I know the consensus is that these elite athletes have accomplished something, but as far as I can tell they are monomaniacs who are willing to sacrifice everything for...what exactly? Olympic athletes are very, very good at one thing, and very, very bad at the rest of life.
They all have different versions of the same story. Sally Olympian has had three knee surgeries just this year. Her mom worked three jobs so she could pay for lessons or whatever. She works out at least eight hours every day. She is doing something so unnatural with her body that she will probably be crippled by middle age.
Um, Sally? Maybe you shouldn’t do that! Also: maybe people shouldn’t admire you for doing that! You’re kind of a freak!
I’m sorry, America, but maybe some guy who skates around in a circle for 12 hours a day like some kind of douchey Rain Man shouldn’t be our next national hero. Besides, body dysmorphia and soul patches are so 1992.
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