Sunday, November 30, 2008


In a time of slogan happy, fear inducing news services, this article from was a breath of fresh air. What struck me about it, and what so knocked me off my feet after reading CNN. com for years? This article was written with intelligence; something CNN and most news outlets lack.

Friday, November 28, 2008

I Go "Meyaa?"

If you ever needed a reason (and I don't know why you would) to understand why I worship Bill Shatner, here it is:

Friday, November 21, 2008

Passing the Time

Just minding my own business. A living, breathing form in complete harmony with the concrete and steel city. My gentle hand rests upon the hard black rubber, exploring the crevices and seams of this useful, and seemingly unappreciated, apparatus. My thoughts drift to those I have loved and those I have yet to love...




Fuck you!

I hate it when people pass me on the escalator. I fucking hate it. They make me feel lazy. I mean, how can a thinking and self respecting young man sit idly by as Johnny Prada suit skips gingerly up the parallel-grooved steps that I still have an irrational fear of catching my shoelace thanks mom in? What am I supposed to do!

He is obviously in good shape. I like to think I am to. But here's the rub: he has taken the initiative to not utilize the wonderful technology of user-propelling steps. No, he is so important that he has to use the steps not as a way of relaxing, as originally intended, but as veritable rocket boosters to his already gingerly gait... and I hate him for it.

When Mickey McAsshole passes me, I generally cast a very judging gaze in his direction. A "Am I not good enough for you?" stare. A "I swear I'm not lazy! I'm just enjoying the scenery! Don't judge." look.

Ok. I'll admit it. I rarely stand on the right. I love passing on the left. It's my job. It's an ego boost. It makes me feel really good. Besides the cardiovascular benefits, I get to pass good looking girls and leave a lasting impression. "Hey hey hey now! Who is this bundled package of Bearded Manhood? Come let mama unwrap her present..." or something like that.

That's why getting passed hurts so much. Whenever it happens, I slowly (dramatically) lower my head and admit defeat. I chose sloth. I chose stagnation. I chose temptation. I chose defeat. Gather your strength, Matt, and follow Jimmy Von Dickwad up the steps. Save some part of your minimal dignity. Your heart will thank you.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Thirsty Thursday!

It's 7:26pm on a Thursday night, and I am at my apartment in a white t-shirt and jeans, lying on top of my bed.

I know you're jealous.

But I just cried my fucking eyes out listening to this comedy skit:


Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Rebel Rebel

If you had to choose to live somebody else's life, who would you choose?

At first, I was thinking Napoleon. But then I remembered that he was five feet four (give or take an inch... in height), was the object of nearly universal hatred for much of his life, and had wicked heart burn. Heart burn is the last thing I need. And oh yeah-- he lost.

Then I briefly considered Genghis Khan. Secretly, I have always harbored a deep desire to smite quivering foes atop a grand white steed... but I'll never admit that. However, the idea of drinking fermented horse milk and travelling through the Russian steppes suddenly doesn't seem so glorious. I'm all for culinary experimentation, but hot sour milk? Fuck that. And the saddle rashes would be killer.

What about Einstein? To be worshipped as the most intelligent living being seems like a pretty cushy job to me.
I got a C+ in physics and besides, I don't speak enough German.

Finally, it hit me. And it was so obvious. I knew it all along.

David Bowie.

I would love to live David Bowie's life, for like, a year. I mean, the man could do basically anything that he wanted and be worshiped as a Rock God. Here's proof:

Exhibit A:
If I want mismatched pupils, then goddammit, I'll have mismatched pupils!

Exhibit B:
If I want to waft steel stress balls at recently drugged pre-teens, then goddammit, I'll waft steel stress balls at recently drugged pre-teens! (all while looking like Mr. Spock had a love child with Rod Stewart and Jack Sparrow)

And finally, Exhibit C:
Twenty years later, a few cosmetic dentistry appointments, a new slick modern wardrobe, and the man is still a Rock God! He can't go wrong. He does no wrong. He is the definition of freedom.

Case closed.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Paranoiacs Rejoice!

Dabbling on the Internet one quiet night, I stumbled upon a website that snatched my attention faster than Ralph Machio:

Apparently this website was featured on Oprah or something like that, giving me and most average Americans a sense of legitimacy. I mean, if the O likes John Edward, I like John Edward.

Once I opened the page, I literally laughed out loud. First, there is this sound that plays.
Open up the website.
Hear that?!
What the fuck is that sound? It's like something out of Aliens meets Windows XP. Attempting to extract meaning from this half second blip would be prove fruitless... but here goes nothing:
If you listen to the sound on headphones or with the speakers on your computer turned up way loud, you'll notice that the file lasts longer than the sound. After the sound dissipates, you can hear some static, indicating that the file lasts about twice as long. Why?
They intentionally wanted that ping to echo; To leave a lasting impression with you.
They wanted that ping to haunt you. Mission accomplished!

Alright, let's dismiss the sound for a moment. What the fuck is the deal with the picture?
The dude looks like a cross between Michael Jackson's Thriller and Steven Hawkings. And don't you just love their matching turtlenecks?

Here's my favorite part:
"It is estimated that between 90 and 93 percent of home computers have active spyware on them. Anyone who thinks they are not affected by spyware is kidding themselves. Even the most skilled professionals encounter spyware. The difference is that the professionals spend a significant amount of time keeping up with the latest ways to avoid, detect and remove these pests from computers.
When it comes to protecting your family from sex predators, using the sexual predator mapping tools is only the beginning. Remember these databases only tell you where the convicted and registered sexual offenders are located. There are many more out there that have never been convicted or are not registering. The Internet is becoming an all too common meeting place for predators and victims. When you cannot even see a face or hear a voice how are you going to recognize these vicious people?"

HA! Where was the fucking transition in that one!
"Let's abruptly change the subject of spyware and start scaring the fuck out of them."
"How can we do that?"
The two high level executives stare at each other for a moment.

This paragraph is absolutely insane. But, let's give these schmucks the benefit of the doubt. Ok Fear Tactic website, I'll play your game.
Let's click on the banner that says "Does a sexual predator live in your neighborhood?" (Oh dear, I'm sure no sex offenders live in my suburban white collar, homogenous community!) You know, the banner with the child on it with a superimposed tear?

Type in your zip code.

I have 1 registered sex offender in my neighborhood.
Well thanks for protecting me and my family! Let's avoid and scorn this fucker like the leper they are!

"To setup your access, we require a one time activation fee of $10.00."

Scam? Case closed.

ps. I wonder what would happen if I could find a place that has zero registered sex offenders? Maybe I win a pair of matching turtlenecks?

Friday, October 10, 2008

To Pee, or Not to Pee?

Last night I went out for a couple of beers with one of my best friends. La la la, we drink we drink then drink some more. I run into an old friend, we mingle, have a great time.

That's not the point.

Stumbling home, I had a slight *eek* in my bladder. Sure, I gotta pee. But I am a hardy young man of strong constitution. I can hold it.

Ho-ly shit.

By the time I was transferring to the G train, I had lost all sympathy for women in labor. I mean, I had a balloon in my stomach that was growing faster by the second. I'm gonna die, I just know it.
Let's not forget that I was piss drunk and very ready to make bad decisions to (pardon the well placed pun) relieve the situation. First I start looking for disposed cups. I swear to God, I will pee in a Solo cup in the middle of the subway. Anything to stop the pain. Truly, my kidneys were spasming. This is how bad it had gotten. I couldn't even sit upright, because my kidneys would have been perpendicular to the Earth and gravity could pull more pee into my bladder. I've got a fucking protractor mentally arranged in my lower back in an attempt to minimize the pee-strain. Desperation.
Waddling around, sweat dripping from my brow, I even contemplated just dropping trou and peeing onto the tracks. Flashes of electrified pee-stream leaping from the third rail to my Oklahoma panhandle quickly brought me to my senses. I had to bite my lip and wait for my stop.

Luckily, I have a pretty accurate, near-photographic, pseudo-Godlike, memory. Fighting my way through the mental barricade of pain, I start pre-planning where I'm going to do my business.

And a big Thank You to the City Park Commission. There is a small park right outside of the subway at my stop. Trouble is, I don't live in an area we would call "safe". Often, there are hoodlums of various gang affiliations hanging out in this very park at this very time, and they would just love to see a scrawny, drunk Matt peeing in their bushes. Fantastic. I'm sure they love raspberry scones.

I have no choice. I've got to chance it. Time is running out. My lower back has shooting pains. I've never gone this long. Sure, we have to hold it sometime, but I'm breaking records right now. I must have had four or five pints in their totality in my tiny tummy. I'm reaching Point Break, and there's no Keanu in sight.
I waddle out of the subway, gripping my lower back to relieve the weight of my biological cargo. I nearly pee myself getting through the turn-rotater thing (I hate those things, as they are the perfect height to smacketh my tackle).
I go up the stairs (Oh God, I'm getting sympathy pains just remembering it). I get to the park.

At that very moment in time, there was only one thing going through my mind:

Tycho Brache.

Absorb that.
He was a Dutch astronomer and he had a golden nose (it was lopped off in a sword fight).
That's not the point: He died when his bladder exploded. He was sitting a table with a king and he needed to tinkle. But at that time, one couldn't leave the table unless one asked for the King's permission. I guess TB was a bit bashful that day, and he paid the price for it. The ultimate price. It's good to be the King.

I'm screwed. My kidneys are screaming. They have evolved mouths, airways, and epiglotti and are now capable of screaming.

I get in the park.
I hop a small iron fence (a near Herculean task).
I start peeing.
The pain won't go away.
I'm gonna die in the park, with pee all over me, from a burst kidney.
My obituary will be unprintable.

I made it.
The pain stops.
I'm alive.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Rebirth, Part II

It's time for another round of blogging. I have this habit of posting continuously for months at a time, only to cease for another few months and consequently lose all of my (small) following. Let's give it another go.

When last we left off, I was trying to make this blog marketable. I figured, if I am going to write, I might as well make some dollar bills.

Fuck that.

I am ready to reveal all that is beyond tact to reveal.

Except, I am a bit intoxicated. Tomorrow it shall begin.

Friday, August 1, 2008

FDR Gone Wild

I'm telling you, I don't know if this video proves that I am a completely immature, kitty-shit for brains moron... but I laughed my ass off watching it. It's tasteless. It's useless. It's complete nonsense.

I'm gonna watch it again.
Don't ask me how I found it.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Stick to Cigars

My travels recently brought me once again to the Fort Greene area of Brooklyn. Actually, I will be spending a fair amount of time there, as I am moving in just next door! Recently I got an apartment in Clinton Hill, near the Pratt Institute, with five other roommates. Should be exciting, collegiate-like, times. The neighborhood is very bohemian. Very diverse. In a word: awesome.

While in town, I had the chance to patronize another apparently semi-famous area restaurant, and, to my surprise, I was pretty disappointed. This place came highly recommended from a friend and when I stumbled upon it in my directionless meandering, I was excited to give it a chance. Here's the skinny:
It's called Habana Outpost, on 757 Fulton Street.
The first thing that will shock you about this place is the set-up. Actually, the set-up is a bit intimidating (I'll get to that later). Forget pretty hostess showing you a table. Here, you walk in to the tiled main room (it felt almost Moroccan with its extensive use of colored tiles), order your food from the wall-mounted menu, pay, and then bring your order receipt to the outdoor seating area to a perpetually parked truck which contains the restaurant's kitchen. A bit unnecessary if you ask me, but cute, and it adds to the DIY atmosphere. Sit down, wait for your food, then grab it from the truck.

The food? Disappointing. The atmosphere? Inviting... kind of.

I ordered a Cuban Sandwich ($7.50), which consisted of roast pork, ham, cheese, pickles, and chipolte mayo on a hoagie. The first shock was that nothing comes with the sandwich. Nothing. Just the sandwich on a paper plate. Honestly, come on. For $7.50, throw me a little rice and beans for christsake. On top of that, the sandwich was nothing to dance over (despite the great Latin tunes playing over the loud speaker). The pork was dry, pretty tasteless, and had an almost tuna fish like texture. It was filler and it was obvious. The rest of the ingredients were standard deli items, decidedly not great quality, leaving me with the unfortunate feeling that I could have made this sandwich just as easily (if not a little better, to be honest) and saved a bunch of money. Even the bread was boring! Toast it, roast it... anything. It was just.... bread. White, plain, boring bread. The sandwich's predominant flavor was the chipolte mayo, which was good. It wasn't great. It was spicy and good (and a complete mess. Bring a garden hose to clean up after this one). To top it off: they were out of their $2.50 draft beers. Goddammit. Even if it was Pisswasser, a $2.50 beer is a thing to be cherished in my book.

Outdoor seating was a welcome change that I eagerly partook in. Sitting beneath the over sized, colorful umbrellas, jotting down notes rather conspicuously, I reflected on how I almost didn't walk inside. This is one of those places where you feel like you need to know what you are doing in order to step inside. It's a tiny bit intimidating. What's with the outdoor benches? Where do I order? Things like that can turn a shy person away. To stereotype, most of Brooklyn is not the type to shy away from the eclectic, so maybe not everybody felt the same way as I.

Overall, this is an alternative to having lunch at a deli. Don't expect gourmet Cuban cuisine. You pay for the atmosphere. Also, don't bring a serious date or a business partner. The food is too messy and you'll probably sweat your balls off outdoors. Pit stains don't help awkward conversation.
The only reason I would come back here is because the restaurant is very eco-friendly and seems involved in the community. I respect that, and even if the food leaves something to be desired, kind, environmentally conscious owners and a friendly waitstaff is enough to get me to come back.

I give Habana Outpost 3.5 Coronas. If I come back, I'll try the burrito and hopefully have a beer.

The Moose

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

DeKalb Was German, But Loved the French

I have found my role model for this blog.

Anthony Bourdain.

Who is he, you ask? Well, let me tell you, on the MattyReed Bad-Ass Index, he falls right underneath Mike Rowe and solidly above that bald guy on the travel channel who eats "exotic" (read: reproductive organs and non-mammalian) foods. He is an unapologetic drinker and connoisseur of the unpretentious. Street food in Mexico? He'll eat it. And smoke a cigarette right after... while wearing a Ramones t-shirt. He showed me that great meals are not found exclusively in red carpet restaurants. You just need to know where to look and go where the locals go. Abhor the convenient.

So why is he my new role model? Answer: he is a traveller, a food critic, and heavily opinionated (and quite intelligent). I consider myself two out of the three (I'm not really opinionated. I just try to come across that way in this blog so you guys have something to laugh/think/scowl about). And if two outta three is good enough for Meatloaf, it's good enough for me.

My point: I am going to try and do restaurant reviews and general New York City living posts for a while. Let's see what happens. My first review:

I spent most of yesterday bumming around the Fort Greene area of Brooklyn, looking for apartments (to no avail). A few of my friends live in the area and after spending a fair amount of time there, I have come to be really quite attracted to the harmonious blend of urban-hipster cafes dotted amongst the plethora of multi-ethnic restaurants. People there seem to want the diversity and really embrace it. Christ, now if that mentality can only spread to the whole fucking world! I digress...
It was around 3pm and my tummy started a' rumblin'. Briefly surveying the area, I spotted a restaurant that a friend of mine had suggested before but I had not yet had the chance to go inside: Le Chez Oskar (211 DeKalb Ave.)

Walking past the outdoor seating (I was already sweating my balls off in the humidity), I headed for the air-conditioned interior and was greeted with a wide open dining room, sporting a dark wood bar and subdued, earthy murals and paintings. With splashes of color thanks to the creative arrangement of red and blue parasols on the ceiling, the waiter on duty told me to sit wherever I liked. I love that. Nothing can bum me out like being placed in a cramped area of a restaurant, just so the patrons are all in one area for the waitstaffs' convenience.
I chose a seat on the side, ordered a Kronenbourg beer from tap ($6... we're in NYC after all) and looked at the menu: a nice selection of salads, crepes, burgers, and a few full entrees. There seemed to be a North African influence in the fare, demonstrated by a few couscous dishes and the presence of spiced lamb (not quite French).
When in Rome... yeah yeah... when in a French cafe, order a crepe. That's the test. I asked the server for his suggestion: ham and Swiss cheese crepe with a bechamel sauce ($8.50). Bring it on.

Wow. These aren't your standard Boulevard St. Germain nutella banana, paper-thin crepes. These were more galette than crepe. A bit more pancake-y, yet still light enough to let the filling carry the flavor. And there were two! I didn't expect that. A pleasant surprise, to say the least. After partaking in the offered fresh cracked pepper, I dug in. Wonderful. It was real ham, moist, and not that crappy, jelly deli, thin sliced ham. The Swiss was not over-powering and seemed to linger in the background, nicely complimenting the experience. I'd almost say the Swiss was neutral, but that would be a really bad joke. Add a perfect amount of creamy bechamel sauce (just a few teaspoons on top, no more), and I had a really great lunch. Just to mix it up, it also comes with a mescalin salad on the side. I could have used a little less of the vinaigrette dressing, as the greens start to wilt from the vinegar over-exposure.

Overall, a great place to bring a date or a business colleague. The interior is conducive to conversation (at least during the day) and with a Curtis Mayfield record playing, I could see myself coming back here often.

Okay, yeah, this is way too long for a restaurant review, but I'm just practicing at this point.

Saturday, July 19, 2008


Thursday, July 17, 2008

Munching in Muenchen and Picking in Paris

Today I was browsing through a travel related blog site and came across a post claiming to help out travelers "on a budget" in Paris.  I was immediately skeptical.  These are usually preaching to the wrong crowds.  It then went on to give listings of restaurants in Paris where budget travelers can go for budget meals.  First listing for breakfast: Angelina on Rue de Rivoli.

Pure bullshit.

If you want to have the best fucking cup of hot chocolate in your life, go to Angelina.  You will forget your name and all about world hunger.  Starving children in Ethiopia?  I didn't notice.   I was too busy sipping an Olympian nectar.  And it was good.  The catch... it's going to set you back about 7.50 euros.  Honestly, what budget traveler would ever spend 7 euros on a meal, nevermind just hot chocolate?  And that's just the hot chocolate!  What about if, god forbid, you want some solid sustenance?  There's another 7 euros.  You're down 14 euros (adjusting for inflation, about $230) and it's not even 11am.
If you can spend that kind of money, then you are not a budget traveler.

There should be postings like this:
Breakfast:  Go to your local boulangerie (bakery).  Listen to me: don't go to any that are inside of the 1-7 arrondissements.  I know you'll get hungry as you stroll along the banks of the Seine, eyeing the unusually attractive people there, but don't you dare go to a bakery in that area.  If they greet you in English, walk out.  Places like this are all inevitably over-priced and prey on unknowing tourists.  You, however, are an all-knowing tourist.  In fact, you are the Most Omnipotent and Reasoning Of Nibblers.  That's right.  You're a MORON.
Also, don't get croissants.  Yeah they are typically French, and even the French like them, but hey... you're broke.  Get a baguette instead.  Whereas a croissant will set you back about 1.80 euros and is mostly butter and air, and can satiate an Ethiopian chipmunk, you are a full grown 20-something and need some calories to burn.  A full baguette is the way to go.  They usually cost a mere one euro (don't spend a cent more) and it is huge.  Eat half, throw the rest in your bag and munch on it throughout the entire day.  Easy.  
If you happen to find a lucky coin on the ground, consider investing in some cheese (fromage).  The protein will do you good.  Now, most penniless of pedestrians, buying cheese from a cheese store (fromagerie... or something) is more expensive than buying from a general grocery store.  You could get a full block of Brie or Camembert (I prefer Camembert.  It tastes more French) for about 2 euros.  And while it won't be as good as the cheese shop block, it's a hell of a lot better than the crap we have here.  Enjoy it.  You just saved 11.50 euros.

And if we were in Munich:
Breakfast- Beer.  Preferably, Augustiner Helles.  About 1.75 euros gets you a half liter.  For best results, drink quickly.

I might have found my target audience.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

One More Mint Julep

My favorite cocktail at the moment is a take on the Mint Julep:

Rum Julip-
2oz dark rum
cube of sugar
mint leaves

Lightly muddle the mint and sugar in the bottom of a whiskey glass with a small amount of rum. Add ice and the rest of the rum. Stir and serve with a mint leaf garnish.

(Why aren't there more mint flavored liquors out there? A personal quest of mine has been to discover a taste that virtually every person enjoys. Banana? Nope. Coconut? Nah. Mint? It's possible! Somebody get on it.)

Monday, July 14, 2008

Seymore Butts Seeks RoomMate

As many of you know, I am room shopping in New York City at the moment. Checking the listings on Craigslist, I stumbled across this one:

It looks harmless. It probably is harmless.

But, check out the address at the bottom:
Seaman Ave and Cumming St.

This sounds like the opening scene of a gay porno.

Viva La France!

Break out your red scarfs and sharpen up the guillotine... it's Bastille Day! The time that we all gather to celebrate the overthrow and subsequent execution of an absolute monarch with parades and violent riots. What better way to show your love for the patrie than torching a parked car or recklessly climbing a national monument while in the nude? And while we stand shouting in the streets, waving the tri-color, make sure to chant that gay tune with those enchanting lyrics, "La Marseillaise":

Arise, children of our country,
The day of glory has arrived!
Against us the bloodied banner
Of tyranny is raised. (repeat)
Do you hear in the countryside
The roar of those ferocious soldiers?
They come right here among us
To slaughter our sons and wives!

For the love of God, take our daughters! But our sons and wives?! Oh the humanity!
I joke. I only joke. We all know that I am quite the Francophile. I would give my first born son in return for another trip to my dear Paris. In case you haven't been there, check out one of my favorite videos of all time:

The name of the film is "Rendezvous". It was filmed in 1972 and is perhaps the most illegal and thrilling joy ride ever caught on tape. The driver covers most of Paris, from the Arc de Triomphe to the Louvre to Sacre Coeur. He even at one point tries to make a turn down the street I lived on (Rue Lepic) but has to abort because it is way too tight of a turn (it happens at 6:16 into the video. You can see the Moulin Rouge moments afterward on the right hand side). He nearly kills a few pedestrians, almost slams into a garbage truck... and he even gets the girl. Bad ass.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Goodbye, Blue Sky

So the new direction isn't quite working out. As you know, I am looking to make this blog marketable in some way. In order to do that, I have to have a niche. Naturally, travel seemed like the perfect match for me. It's not.

Dude, I must have spent two hours trying to come up with a new Travel related post today. On top of that, the last one sucked. I was going to write about hostels, and how to survive in them, but really it's all common sense and anything that I have to say would only seem patronizing. I could write about certain sights in certain cities, but there's only so much information that's available inside of my clouded noggin. Yeah, go to Montmartre. Go to the Blue Sky Cafe and have a croque madame et un petit cafe...

It was one of those usual beautiful Parisian days. Sunshine that just warms the skin. These were the sort of days that got my creative juices flowing and inspired me to partake in that most cherished of Parisian traditions: outdoor cafe seating. Leaving my humble apartment on Rue Lepic, near the Moulin Rouge, I head east down Rue Abbesses toward my favorite spot: Blue Sky. That's the actual name. I am not translating it. It's right off the Place des Abbesses, down a winding road dominated on one side by what was once a piano factory but now houses a series of quaint restaurants and art spaces. Making my way past the Tyrolean restaurant with the little dog that scared the crap out of me nearly daily, and past the vintage dress shop, I turn the corner and there it is. Blue Sky is on the corner, and once you reach said corner, you can hear the Cuban music coming from inside. That's a good sign. I'm convinced Hemingway would have eaten here. That's an even better sign.

With a Gene Kelly-like bounce, I tread up the brick steps and walk inside. The place is small, with a little cooking area in the back and mismatched chairs and tables up front. This is not a high-volume operation. This is a gem.

Since I came here every other day or so, the owner and I have a pleasant relationship. I bring my friends with me for late night carafes of some of France's finest and he tosses us some fromage to munch on for free. You will not find that anywhere else in Paris, and I can nearly gurantee that. He values our patronage! What an outlandish proposition.
The owner is a short little bald guy from Madagascar, about 30 years old or so. He speaks English quite well, laughs in falsetto, and is kind enough to humor me when I was looking to practice my deplorable French. He came here to study law, but ran out of money... so he opened a cafe. I'm not sure how that works out, but it wasn't my place to inquire further. What's also great about him is that he knew what I liked. Nothing is more inviting than to have an owner recognize you and ask "the usual"? I love it when that happens, and go out of my way to make sure it does.

The Usual: Croque Madame. A simple French dish that is about the closest one can come to American style breakfast food, though it is not considered exclusively for breakfast here. The dish consists of a piece or two of battered bread, stacked, with a layer of melted cheese and thinly sliced ham in between with a single egg cracked on top. Residual heat from the toast cooks the egg while allowing enough of the runny yummies to spill onto the bread underneath. Salmonella is not spoken of, nor thought of. Cut inside, let the egg run and let the bread soak it up. A wonderful way to start the day... and cheap too! About 6.50EUR.
Give me an expresso with a cube of sugar and I'm all set.

With my meal in front of me, I would usually whip a few pieces of paper out from my ubiquitous man-bag and start writing. Of course, I am using my fountain pen. I'm convinced that the only reason I started writing was because I like my own handwriting and the feel of the smoothness of the flowing ink. It makes me feel colonial in some way. I even added flair to my signature, a la John Hancock. I digress...

Well, actually, this entire post is a digression. But, it serves a purpose: I could write about food! Natalie once told me that I live my days according to the next meal. Why not capitalize on it! I've give it a trial run tomorrow and see what happens.


If you want to see passion, watch Bernstein for the last few minutes of this video.

If Shoshtakovich isn't your forte, try a little bit of the man who I revered as a virtual saint throughout my college years:

Thursday, July 3, 2008

I Want to Be a Part of It!

I've got a job. In NYC!

Dreams do come true!

But. I have that depressing feeling that I am about to wake up from my dream, only to want to fake-sleep in the vain hope that I will slip right back into the old dream. I'm on my way back Angelina... I promise. Just, eh, wait in the jacuzzi.

I am a soon-to-be assistant manager of a Manhattan tea room. Well actually, there are three branches, and I would work in all three. And how appropriate! Throughout college, one of my sort of trademarks was my extensive tea collection (In all honesty, I had way too many teas for a friggin' college dorm. But, it was a chick magnet. I mean, I could have just as well have been a yoga instructor. They like that sensitive/new-age stuff. Right, and I know that... and that's why I am still single...)

This place is really cute. Lots of pregnant moms, old ladies, and hippie artsy types. My kind of crowd (well, sort of. Pregnant moms are all well and good, but they are not necessarily my "thing".) The people who work there seem very friendly and the neighborhoods are generously gentrified. Perhaps the best part is that this is not a "pinky in the air, have The Help hail a horse" kind of place. They are real people, without the Victorian pretensions. And they like tea. *sigh* Quite a relief.

I suppose this will be a nice way to live the NYC life for now.
Long term goals: Graduate school. Short term goals: Sustenance.

Aside: I swear I am going to do more Travel related posts soon. I haven't been writing much lately, so I have to find my groove again. These past few posts are just to get the gears cranking. Stay tuned.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

Asinine Employment

Job seaches.

At first, there is that electricity in the air. I can taste it. My ears are buzzing. I've got pins and needles in my sweaty palms. I am ready to commit myself to a career and the possibilities are endless. Work for the CIA? Maybe. How about on Wall Street? I can do it. Dream the impossible dream all you dreamers! My heart rate leaps as I set off upon my glorious and mysterious journey. I have the unexplainable urge to purchase a blue dress and red shoes. And a little dog too.

Google. Get ready for me.
"new york city jobs".
Silly Google. Do you even have to ask? Of course. I'm Feeling Lucky. Well, do you? Punk?

Ah shit.

There's millions of postings. I don't want to be a friggin' Policy Analyst. If the word "anal" is anywhere in my job title, count me out... unless it was Canal Gondolier. I've gotta say, that'd be awesome.

I scroll through the hundreds of pages of purgatorial descriptions: Marketing Consultant. Director of Sales. HVAC Technician. Message Therapist. Assistant to the Director of Public Relations...
I'm writing to my Senator. Forget the phonebooks, I've got some more creative ammunition Mrs. Clinton. Filibusters will never be the same.

I'm not in the mood to continue this fruitless search. This is about as enjoyable as typing "anal" into Google. NO. I'm not Feeling Lucky.

Why We Run

Those of you that know me are aware that I have been a tour guide in Europe for the majority of last year. Blah blah Paris blah beer blah. Here's something you might not know: I'm not going back. Why, you ask? Well, we can thank Mr. Hemingway for the answer (and I'm paraphrasing here):
"No matter how far you go, you can never run away from yourself."

When I read those lines in The Sun Also Rises, I felt as if His Beardedness was reaching out to me from the literary ether. It struck me like the left horn of a run-away at Pamplona. I literally had to put the book down momentarily. Yeah, perhaps it was a bit dramatic. But, hell, nobody was looking. Let me have my moment. Regardless, I felt like an old friend had clasped my shoulder and said in a gruff baritone voice, "Matt, it's been fun, but it's time to get a big boy job and help your parents pay off your college loans... you spoiled bastard." He'd spittle a little (whiskey soda) with the "s" in "spoiled".

And there's the rub.

Travelling is a wonderful opportunity. There's no doubt about that. Exploring narrow streets, meeting fascinating people, imbibing the unimbibable; these are what make the experience so magical. It's the chance to leave the mundane behind and see the world from a new perspective. Ideally, we can learn to appreciate and embrace the differences that make this world such a colorful place. But. There's a time and a place for all this.

If in order to travel you must mooch off your parents generosity, it is time to reconsider if this is the best idea. Going broke isn't helping anybody out. Sure, I have some killer stories about near death experiences in the darkest recesses of Western Europe... but I also have about $22 in my pocket because of it. And a hangover. Nobody needs that.

My point is to travel when you can. Spend your extra money on it. Live the stories. But don't make it your life... unless you can afford that. In which case, I'm jealous. And single. And willing to travel.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Little Green Globule

What the hell is that feeling?


I hit my side with a well aimed kung-fu chop, only to frighteningly realize that a cool and somewhat slimy sensation was creeping into my bones. I just killed an inch worm. It was in my shirt. Now, all that's left is a green spot. They have green blood.

The poetry of the moment struck me. The only reminder of the existance of this unasuming insectoid is a small stain left on my Hanes undershirt. It's kind of sad when you think about it. This thing was a living, pseudo-breathing organism until moments ago. Soon it will be in my septic system, mixed with Tide with Color Safe Bleach.

On the Road Again...

"Every journey begins at home."

If you read that twice, you might think it is a deep and profound thought. What is he saying? Does he mean that no matter how far you travel, both physically and meta-physically, the journey must take you back to your roots; you're humunculous, pre-natal roots? There the answer lies. Maybe he means that before we explore both the world and ourselves, take a brief moment for contemplative meditation, find your beautiful inner-you, and reflect upon the road that stretches ahead?

Nah. I just mean that you have to pack before you leave your house.

That's where all travel begins. In your closet. In your dresser drawer. In your sibling's closet. Under the bed. Wherever your possessions may lurk. Might I offer some of my tried and tested advice to you?

Keep it simple! Mountains of stress can be avoided by simply packing lightly. When dealing with airports, adhere to the Buddhist creed: if you have no possessions, then you have none to lose. Fewer bags means fewer moments of waiting at the freakin conveyor belt that I so desperately wish to gleefully ride, and the less time you spend there, the better. True, there are friends to be made as you help the cute college backpacker with her cinder blocks packed in a steel reinforced trunk (she doesn't read this blog), but it's fleeting. She's just not into you. You might think she is, but hell, who wants to make friends at a time like this? When I am waiting for my luggage, I'm so angsty I could strangle a baby seal. That's not a quality the ladies are digging these days. I digress...

Simply, you won't lose your bags if you are carrying the only one you need.

Travelling forces you to assess what you value most.
That's deep.
I mean, do you really need six pairs of jeans? Truly, the stone-washed Guess ones look exactly like the Seven vintage ones. There's no need to bring both. Nobody will notice and your lower back will thank you. Do you need five pairs of shoes? Nope. Find those casual-yet-classy-yet-comfortable ones that can serve many purposes. So much easier. And tie them to the outside of your bag. They take up an unnecessarily large amount of interior bag-space. Especially if you are going to be moving from place to place, stopping for only a few days at a time, the less you pack the better.

Ugh. I am reliving those sweaty memories where I am trying to get my overloaded green suitcase into a youth hostel, but the fucking steel bump in the doorway is impeding my progress. I try and try, but fail. Repeatedly. More sweat. Get a running start and... it tips over. Some kind local tries to help but I just grunt and try to muscle it over. Sweating profusely. I get it over, only to have to wait in line to sign in. After thats done, I find out that my room is on another floor. A cheerful baby seal walks in the front door...

In the end, after you are done packing, chances are that you don't need 30% of the crap in your bag. Re-assess. Be ruthless. Pack plenty of socks.


Eh. I'm gettin bored writing this post. It sucks. I'll change it later. But hey, at least I have a new theme. AND I can incorporate my odd thoughts on the mundane INSIDE of the blog. Cool. I'll come back to this.

Are You Still Reading This?



Are you still reading my blog?

Dude, I haven't updated this thing in probably two or three months. It's defunct. It's kaput. It's nicht ser gut.

I'd like to change that. I want to restart the blog, but with a new purpose. At the moment, I don't know what that purpose should be. I mean, at this exact moment it's just therapy, as I am writing these lines with the full knowledge that nobody is reading this. "Then why post it?" asketh you. Answereth: Um, I'm not sure. I guess it is a bit like confession right now. Not that I ever went to confession, nor have much to confess (lie), but you get the idea.

Anyhow, I want to take the blog in a new direction. Enough of my random thoughts and rants about typical daily-grind bullshit. True, it was rather insightful, if I may be so bold to say. True, it was fleetingly entertaining and provides a nice outlet for my pent up frustrations... but... it ain't marketable. I'd like to do something that will make me some money, win me a following, make me famous. I have no delusions about that. Bills don't pay themselves. All I have to decide is what to write about:

Nah. I couldn't bear the inevitable deluge of hate mail. I'm very sensitive to those types of things.

Fuck no. I'm not contributing to the downfall of Western Civilization... or at least Western culture.

That's a bit more up my alley. However, I am grounded for the foreseeable future and would just be writing based on conjecture and imperfect memories. That's not so bad, I suppose. So far, this topic is in the lead.

Money and Finance?
Considering that my net worth is roughly $32.84, I don't think I should be the one giving advice.

Travel it is then. I'll make shit up. It's what I'm good at. I'll do a few test posts, and you, sun-drenched reader, can let me know what you think.


Thursday, April 17, 2008

MR is BA

Men I admire:

Prince (the Purple Warrior of Love... not Charles)
My father

and Mike Rowe.

Don't know who Mike Rowe is? Well you're missing out. This is my brief homage to the man himself: You might know him as the host of Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel. OHHHH!! That guy. Yeah, him. Scruffy beard, trucker hat, old blue jeans (have I ever mentioned my sincere love of old collared shirts? I just love those cotton button downs with the colors faded from sun exposure and saturated in man-sweat from years of hiking in the Adirondacks, scaling insurmountable dunes in the Atlas Mountains, and herding sheep in the Himalayas. Of course, I don't where these shirts out [nor have I scaled the Himalayas], granted, but when I put one on, I just think about the sweaty adventures to come). He might be the coolest MF to walk the planet. Honestly, who would answer this ad:

"Looking for middle aged guy to stick his arm up multiple cows' asses and rummage through horse shit while being filmed. Must endure nauseating stenches and willingly endanger his life for the sake of entertainment. Wit a plus."

Mike Rowe would.

Come to think of it, I would to. Except, I'm not bad ass enough. In fact, I am kind of like the anti-thesis to bad ass. I might talk the talk, but I cower in the corner in the fetal position, sob, and suck on my pinkies, rather than walk the walk. Mike Rowe doesn't cry. He makes Chuck Norris look like a petrified Christopher Lowell. In a hair salon.

Perhaps the coolest factoid about MR (we have the same initials) is that he used to be an opera singer. You've got to be kidding me.

So, let's compare:

ex-opera singer
Hosts hit television show
Probably bangs hot chicks
Risks life
Voted #4 Dudelist Dude by Maxim
Incredibly witty
Can probably bench press his truck
Kick ass beard stubble

ex-collegiate musical theatre... uh... participant
writes a blog. Some people read it.
Is writing said blog at 10:40pm on a Thursday night, hence, no hot chicks in sight.
Lives with his parents.
Voted "Most School Spirit" in high school. (Hence, no hot chicks in sight.)
Thinks of come backs three hours later in the shower
I almost won a fist fight with Stephan Hawkings once. He cheated.
Hell yeah.

So go out there, turn on the Discovery Channel, and marvel at Mike. Perhaps some day, with a little bit of sweat, perseverance, and sun burn, I can be a tenth as bad ass. Yeah. Maybe. A boy can dream.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Life is a Stage

This whole "working" thing is kind of getting on my nerves. For the past nine months, I would wake up around 10, fall out of bed (often quite literally), partake in something closely resembling hygiene, and stumble out the door to give a three to four hour lecture to a group of wide eyed tourists. Ask names... forget names. Schmooze. Booze. That was it. Done. (With notable exceptions).

But now I am working nearly every day this week. What's up with that? And to top it off, I am in one place, wearing a uniform (dirty green embroidered aprons are so hot right now), doing the same thing, and saying the same thing to everybody: "Hey, how's it going? What can I do for you today?"

It reminds me of an interview I saw once with Marlon Brando (I spend an unhealthy amount of time on YouTube, browsing for old music clips or interviews). In it, Brando, looking rather Jabba the Hutt-ish, philosophizes on how we are all actors. Everybody acts throughout the course of their day. It's natural. And you know what? He's right.

As a tour guide, sure, I acted. That's part of the job. It needs to seem fresh and exciting every time. I mean, come on, I'm working for tips. But even here at the healthy deli, I have to act like every new person who walks through the door could be the second incarnation of Christ. But that's "customer service". There's nothing wrong with it. It's just interesting to think about. I mean, if this did not exist, the whole service industry would be a suicide-worthy experience.

How natural is it to be "fake" to a degree? Is that instinctual? Thinking about it, I can't imagine another time in history where that would have been necessary. Maybe when greeting a King or Queen, but often times they were basically supposed to be the next incarnation of Christ (or at least a demi-god)! Acting in life seems to be a modern phenomena (at least according to my forty seconds of analysis).

When you are at work today, count how many times you "act". Pass the same person twice in the hallway? Make it seem like you're excited to see them! Again! So much better than the first time.


Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Consciously Rising Above Paranoia (CRAP)

I'll admit it: I'm a hypocrite.

I said I'd never work in food services, and here I am with my hands wrist deep in organic chick peas (which are neither "chicks" nor "peas"... discuss). I mean, my entire life I have been sort of irrationally disgusted with half-eaten or partially eaten food. The thought of putting my delicate hands into the leftover muck left by others was enough to send me running for the hills with tears streaming from my eyes, snot dripping from my nose, and my arms waving frantically like a marionette on crack.

EH! How disgusting! How vile! I'm not quite sure what is the most revolting aspect of touching the food. Truly, it's harmless. It can't hurt me. I know that. But, I can compare touching Somewhat-Hardly Imbibed Trifles [SHIT] with that feeling when I pick up dog poop with a plastic bag or paper towel: Even though my hand never comes into contact with the frightening substance and I am otherwise fine, there is still that revolting feeling that sends shivers through my body. Oh man. I hate it when I have to do that. Some people are so natural at it! I envy them. They're all "It's natural! No big deal. I just pick it up, as if... (they look softly into the distance) as if I was simply plucking an enchanting flower from an azure meadow. Bend. Pick. Done." And I'm all "EWW!! IT'S WARM!"

Where was I? Ah yes...

Oh enchanted world that hath beset these troubled times upon mine depraved being. Why dost thou forsaketh me! For what have I done to deserve this... this... culinary quandary! I think, therefore I am. Henceforth: I touch, therefore, I am employed.

Example: Today I had to "clean the sinks" at closing. Oh god. Such a harmless title, and such a sinister understatement. They were completely covered in SHIT. SHIT everywhere.

And now I present to you, the climatic song at the end of the First Act of SHIT the Musical entitled, "Moving On (I Don't Care)" In this song, Mateo, the good-natured but seriously confused Puerto Rican immigrant, gets over his irrational fear of SHIT:

On the chair
On the bowls
In my hair
In the stove
SHIT everywhere!
SHIT everywhere!
Watch me stare!
It's covered in SHIT and...
I (crash) DON'T (crash) CARE! (a sustained F)

Tomorrow should be fun,

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Give In...

My current obsession:

I was born in the wrong decade.

Hormone Free

I've done it. It's about time, and I've done it.
I got a job.

Where, pray tell? Well let me tell you!

a deli.

Bummer, right? I know, tell me about it.

Well, it's not your ordinary deli, per se (Could you imagine ever actually working at Se Port? I think I would strangle myself from a combination of stress, testosterone suffocation, and random encounters with people whose names I don't quite remember but necessitate a hey I know you.) I work at one of those organic all natural feel good hippie delis! If you lean back, I'm sure you can smell the patchouli...

As usual, I'm exaggerating ("Every story is the truth, and some of them actually happened"). This place is sort of low key, relaxed, "greet the usuals" kind of a place. I think I'll fit in. And really, I'll only be there for about a month or so before I head off for theatrical pastures in CT, so I know I can handle it.

So, I'll do this for a while, be a bum at home for a month or two, and after getting my yearly musical theatre quota (you know I'm doing two shows in CT right?), I'm back on the boat and off to Scotland for a few months. Peace out patchouli and hand me the haggis!

I only have one fear: when in Munich, I needed to buy lederhosen after I became a certified beer drinking Bavarian. Will I come back from Scotland in a he-skirt?

Hell yes.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Matt Hate Mott

I've got to get something off my chest that has been bothering me for the longest time:

Honestly, what the fuck is the deal with tomato juice on airplanes?

I'm telling you, every single time I travel on an airplane, some D-bag next to me has to order the goddamn tomato juice. Why?! I have no idea. Never before in the short 23 years of my earthly existence have I ever once seen a fellow human being order tomato juice anywhere except in a plane. At the local cafe? No. At the Italian place on the corner? Never. Over at the organic smoothie place? Not once. In the refrigerator at home? Fuck you.

Only on planes.

So what's the appeal? Who really wants to slug watered down marinara sauce mid-flight? Come on! I'm sure it's great for your breath and works wonders on your teeth. Oh, and how can I forget, it must be marvelous to imbibe amidst turbulence! I mean, I'm having trouble enough slurping down those little "pull back the tin lid" water thimbles and you're going for the friggin' tomato juice! Granted, I like to occasionally get a faux-glass of red wine on the plane... but that relaxes me. There's a physical/emotional side effect! It gets you drunk, biotch! Tomato juice? Full of vitamin C and filth.

Maybe it's more subtle than I imagine. Maybe other people have already realized this disturbing state of affairs, and know that the only time they can get their beloved tomato juice is on plane rides. Maybe they see other people order the tomato juice and think to themselves "high stain potential, nauseating stench, and ghastly gross glass residue (similar to how milk leaves its little calcium slug trail after you drink it from a transparent receptacle, tomato juice leaves its Trail of Tears behind as well; except it looks like... don't make me write this. Use your colorful imagination and a biology textbook). SIGN ME UP!"

Oh god, I'm getting a visual: the crimson morass interspersed with flecks of unnameable "herbs" and "natural flavors" snaking its venomous path to the awaiting ignoramus's lips, but alas, his/her appetite for the vile fluid is insatiable (!) as he/she dips the container at too severe an angle, causing the murderous magma to overflow onto the dolt's upper lip, giving them a most dreaded and revolting juice-stache (a la The Joker). The horror! THE HORROR! DAMN YOU MOTT'S!

Perhaps I am making too much of a fuss about this. Maybe there are legions of TJ lovers out there, who, hidden from public view and discourse, hoard gallons of the stuff in their garage ice-boxes, and sneak out when the kids are asleep to partake in their ritual all-night bingers. The thought horrifies me.

I hope I can sleep tonight,

ps. I haven't had a rant post in a while. It feels good.

Highway to Hell

Yesterday I had an encounter that many people dream of. I know I have. Yet, when push came to shove, I blanked.

I had just finished a meal with my dad and sister at the local restaurant we like to frequent. For some reason, I was not feeling too great. It was a combination of the jitters and a slight nausea. I felt wrong in my skin. My theory is that it's from the coffee I drink. I never started until I arrived in Paris (ah, Paris. Te amo y Ich liebe dich). Once I got there, I didn't pick up smoking at all; just drinking espressos at every meal and whenever I wasn't doing anything else. Oddly, I developed this twitch in my right eye that I associated with stress at the time. It was probably the caffeine. Anyway, while at home, I continue to drink espressos or "bold" coffee. I've gotta stop that. Where was I going with this story? Oh yes!

After the meal, I went for a drive. I like to go through the Old Field area, with its winding roads and high school memories. Sifting through the fog of my daydreaming, I realized I was near the library. Wonderful! I had been there a few days ago and realized that I forgot to get the one book I had originally intended to obtain: Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" (I'm reading it now, and I'm not too impressed... sadly). As I was skimming through the poetry section, looking for something else (I forget what), I started eavesdropping on a young couple who were at the computer near me. They were about 18 years old or so, and looked kind of like your typical Long Island urbanized-but-living-in-the-suburbs kids. She had white eyeliner and stick straight, processed hair. He had a shaved head dotted with scars that refused to regrow their sandy blond hairs. She was trying to get him to find and read a book. A noble pursuit, and I liked her. While searching at the computer, he turned around to face me and exclaimed "Dude, what should I read?" It was a rhetorical question. He really wasn't looking for an answer. He only looked at me long enough to say the remark, not hear the response. But it struck me. Uh, I don't know! I consider myself a reasonably well read dude, but I couldn't come up with an answer. Yeah, I could be pretentious and throw around Hugo and Melville, but who wants that? This dude is not shouting "Romantic Literature". I gave it a minute... and decided to lie.

"Hey man, I've been thinking about it and I think I got it. Try Jack Kerouac, "On the Road."
I've never read Jack Kerouac.
"I think you'd like it. Its not pretentious or wordy. It's funny and mainly about his drug filled adventures across the US."
I think I heard that somewhere. It's not really funny and there are much less drugs than I imagined. I think I confused him with Hunter S. Thompson.
"You'd really like it."
He'd hate it.

He thanked me without looking me in the eyes and I drifted away. Perhaps I inspired him. Some day, after living a life in the lap of luxury as a famous travel writer and literature critic, he will look back on that day he had a chance encounter with a stranger in the local public library. Thank you, dear stranger, thank you! You've inspired me and given me direction! Kerouac was the beginning. You showed me Valhalla!

Walking down the steps, I wandered (feeling quite high and mighty) down to the fiction section of the library. Browsing the rack, I saw it. It was staring at me. The seas parted and it was there. And it was good.

One copy left.

Jack Kerouac. "On the Road".

I took it, checked it out, and left with it under my arm and I'm not sure why.
Still thinking about that one,

Monday, April 7, 2008

Mr. O'Toole

Here is the video I mentioned before of Peter O'Toole on Letterman. I promise, this is the last time I will mention the guy for the foreseeable future.

Do I Have an Uncle Lou?

Recently my dad and I attended a benefit concert in Brooklyn for a local theatre (spelled, pretentiously, "theatre" and never "theater". It's much more Dickensian-more Shakespearean-more Peter O'Tooleian. Need I say more?). The theme of the night was "Hal Willner's Stay Awake Live". To my feeble mind, the only images I can conjure up, based on the title, are of red-eyed musical theatre junkies swilling espressos in the vain attempt to remain conscious. How wrong I was.

Apparently "Stay Awake Live" was this huge album in the 80's or something where contemporary musicians and other celebrities re-recorded Walt Disney songs. This one woman I met (who reminded me of a drunken Joan Cusack) continually repeated how she used to cry and cry while listening to the album, especially the song from Bambi. Thinking back, I am not really sure I have even even seen Bambi, or Dumbo, or other one-word titled cultural masterworks. I have images in my head from it, like Bambi's mom getting shot, but over time I think that I have made it a much more gruesome scene in my imagination. There's Charlton Heston (RIP), stalking his prey down-wind, with a 30.06 in his calloused hands, a German Luger at his hip, and a Bowie knife between his teeth... just in case. Striped down to his American flag knickers, he puts snow in his mouth to hide his breath, stares down his iron sights, tracks the foraging beast before him, and between heart beats...

I'm pretty sure it was nothing like that. I digress.

So we show up to this Berlin-esque warehouse-turned theatre. Beautiful men and women with perfectly crafted messy hair serve glasses of wine to willing patrons and sporadic tables filled with every trendy snack imaginable (carrots, pita chips, hummus, assorted cheeses, etc.) litter the reception space. Pops and I partake in the red. Most go for the white. I think that's because the red might stain their teeth. I don't know, I feel like if you drink it a certain way, that doesn't normally happen. Or maybe they just like the look of a glass of wine but not the taste. No matter. The room fills, the lights begin to flicker, and the show starts. First person out on stage:

David Byrne.

Like, the David Byrne.

For those of you not up on your post-punk-"80's rock is unappreciated-Ian Curtis is God-Duran Duran Changed My Life, instead I Rock to Rachmaninov", losers... David Byrne was the lead singer/creative genius behind The Talking Heads. Or so they tell me.

With a shock of white hair and sporting a white tuxedo, the man himself comes out on stage and is full of charisma and charm. He breaks out into the Cinderella tune "A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes". It's wonderful. He's full of emotion, in that Byrnesian throaty voice. Very nice.

At this point, both Dad and I were feeling the full effects of the vine, making wise cracks at the performers and our fellow attendees. It was father-son bonding at its best.

Other highlights included Steve Buscemi coming out and sing-speaking "Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho" in a kind of Mike Myers from "So I Married An Ax Murderer" beat poetry style. That's ok, because, hey, Mr. Pink doesn't really shout out Musical Theatre to me. He can get away with it.

The night continues, we schmooze with the locals, eat salmon salad, fine cuts of steak, and wild rice, etc. Then, the man sitting next to me points out a living (read: barely living) legend who is in the crowd today.
Lou Reed.

Yes, Lou Reed. Velvet Underground. and uh... Lou Reed.

I thought the dude was going to croak right there. He is maybe 4 feet tall, wearing a bright orange hoodie (I guess he was trying to be inconspicuous), and shuffling about like an aging Igor (that's Frankenstein's assistant, not Stravinsky... although the visual of an aged Stravinsky is pretty close to what I'm trying to get at). The man is a legend. He changed modern music. He made "noise" cool. Andy Warhol produced one of his albums for christsake! But dude, he looks old and kind of imp-y. I wanted to say something to him, but chickened out. What could I say? "Hey Mr. Reed! No relation. Hahaha! Get it? My last name is Reed too! ha. Nevermind. Uh, I liked that time, forty years ago, when you were with the Velvet Underground. That was awesome. Umm, I'm not really sure what you've done since then, but I'm sure it was pretty important. Have a great night!" Nah, let the dude enjoy his meal. The last thing he needed was some smart ass 20-something claiming to know all about his influence on music and not really knowing a damn thing.

And that was the end of the night. Good times. I'm off to try and find a job and make a small contribution to society!

Friday, April 4, 2008

You've Heard of "Monster in Your Pocket"...

Now get ready for "Puke Pocket."
This is a little story about what happened to me a month or two ago when I went to London. It's a sad story, filled with massive amounts of heartbreaking torment and a small amount of puke. I guess that needs an explanation:

It started out like any other day in Paris. I woke up with a hangover (My good buddy Pieter had insisted that I go out the night before. "No Pete, I have a train to catch at like 8 in the morning, I can't go out." Then, he pulls this one out on me: "Dude. What would Peter O'Toole do?" [Note: I worship Peter O'Toole. Yeah, he's a great actor. Who isn't? No, what I love about the man is his blatant disregard for his own personal safety and the judgments of others. He once told a story on Letterman about how he goes out drinking one night in Dublin with a friend of his. They are piss drunk and decide at 4 am {"not too late"} that they are going to go out "for one last one." They go to this hole-in-the-wall bar and proceed to get even more inebriated. The barman walks up, says "Boys, you've had enough. You'll be having no more." Peter O'Toole looks at him, looks at his friend, and says "Oh no, we'll be having quite a few more." The barman won't serve them....... so they buy the bar. How. Fucking. Bad-ass. I digress....]. That bastard. He knows that I quite curiously admire PO'T. The deal was sealed. So yeah, I go out with Pieter and proceed to get wasted, only to wake up three hours later for a train ride to London. Great idea Matt. Make sure to tell your kids about that one.)

This was sort of your ordinary "subtle pain in the right temple" hangover. Nothing too serious. I get up and realize, much to my chagrin, that I forgot to pack the night before. Oh yeah! I was drinking heavily. In normal circumstances, this would be no big deal. My wardrobe is not too extensive, so it's rather easy to find something that I would like to wear. However, I am going to London. London is trendy. And to top it off, I'm going to London to see a girl who I met on my tour in Paris and hit it off with (hey Andie) and hey, she's pretty damn good looking. I've got to look presentable... or at least somewhat non-vomit inducing.

I throw some clothes into my man-bag, throw on my beloved jacket, check my passport, wallet, glasses, and such, and head out the door. I'm in a bit of a rush. I run down the road, slide into the metro (line 2) and make it to Gare de Nord just in time. Flying past the other commuters, I arrive at my platform and at customs. Cool. Shouldn't be a big problem. If they realize that my visa is one month expired, I can charm the lady behind the glass. Scratch that. The big hulking dude behind the glass. Strike one.

I get up to the counter. "Passport and customs card please." Fuck. I forgot to fill out one of those completely ridiculous "where will you be staying while in London? Why are you going to London?" forms. Strike two. Running to the back of the line, I find the stack of cards (sprawled out, quite lazily and without form, on a small, poorly labeled table). There are no pens on the table. You've got to be kidding me. Alas! No problem. I always carry a pen (and paper) on me at all times in my very special pocket in my jacket. The pen is a sick steel Parker fountain pen (very chic... and over-priced... and pretentious), and the paper is a small notepad that I track my life on. It has all my business notes, all my funny stories I wish to remember, and little musings that I have on the metro. I cherish these two articles, and they are constantly at my side, awaiting my use (I like to imagine that I am a world famous journalist, with a quick wit and a scathing pen, ready to record history at a moment's notice on my small green spiral pad. I softly chuckle to myself when I withdraw my pen and pad, and think "Anderson Cooper ain't got shit on me. Well, except for the fame. He's got that. I'll give it to him. And the good looks. Yeah, he's got that too. Damn, he's a good looking man. That white hair works well. And he's got a TV show... i have a blog. Fuck Coop.")

I reach into my pocket, like I have done so many times before, coyly smile and wait for somebody important-looking to see me pull out my nifty pen and be all impressed:
A shudder courses through my veins.
It feels weird in there.
Like... kind of moist.
My pocket should not be moist.
I look down.
The outside of my pocket is perfectly normal.
The inside, however, is lined with a small amount of some undetermined chunky fluid.
And now it's on my hand.

It looks like a small amount of puke has somehow nestled itself inside my pocket, making itself welcome in the once vacant chasm. Not on it, or around it, mind you. In it. And not loads of puke. Somebody didn't mistake my pocket for a waste receptical and ralph in it. No. It appears somebody put a heaping tablespoon of puke in my pocket. Did I mention: it's on my hand now.

Dilemma: I need my pen. It's inside the pocket. The pocket has puke in it. With ninja-like skill, I retrieve the pen, wipe off excess puke on the table (it was instinctual and a bad idea) and proceed to fill out the customs card. I am gagging thinking about the current situation. I couldn't be more uncomfortable. Is anybody watching this? Did they see my puke-reaction?

"Hey there, could I borrow your pen?"

I look up. There is a rather effeminate dude standing there, blank card in hand. He's talking to me. He needs a pen. Panic. Do I: a)explain the situation and the unknown origin of the puke. b)Welcome to Hell, please sign here.

I've always liked my signature.

I give him the pen, try not to make eye-contact, barely answer his queries, and quickly shuffle away. He definetly noticed the puke.

After thoroughly washing the inside of my jacket and the outside of my beloved pen, I had to part with the notepad. The paper was too absorbant. Honestly, it was a difficult parting. I felt like the old bitch on the Titanic. (No, she's not a bitch. It just sounded cool). Good bye, sweet spiral notepad. You shall be missed.

Here's one to you,

ps. The origin of the puke remains a mystery. I don't think it was my puke; yet the possibility of it being another's puke is difficult to imagine as well. Maybe it's best to never know.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Back in Black.... well, really "the red"

And I'm back, ready to blog and humiliate myself to the masses. Bring it on.

I am currently back home on Long Island (A curious note: We LIers refer to living "on" Long Island rather than "in" Long Island. I can't think of another similar example. People live in NYC, they live in Boston, they live in their mother's basement, they live in a cave. Hmm... some live on the beach, others on Martha's Vineyard, or on Cape Cod. Interesting: I think that "in" denotes a large space or seemingly large space, and "on" is something perceived as smaller... maybe. Anyway). Things have been largely sterile and unworthy of note, namely due to my current lack of income. Ergo, I need a fucking job.

Yet, even in the midst of an employment crisis, I am being too picky in my choice of future jobs. Today, I was going to apply to a local restaurant where many of us used to go back in high school... until I realized that many of us used to go there back in high school. That's just what I need: the label of "the Guy Who Never Left Home." I've left home! I swear! True, I'm not too monetarily successful. Yeah, I'm kind of in debt. But I'm a traveler! I'm a writer! Live Free, Think Hard! Feel free to make sexual advances at me!

Maybe not.
Here's how I imagine a conversation that would take place way too often:

Hot Chick from High School who doesn't look quite so hot anymore but is still looking good (hereafter referred to as "FHC" [former hot chick]: Hey Matt! Great to see you!
Me: Oh hey ____! (too much enthusiasm, revealing my true apathy).
FHC: What are you doing here? Have you worked here long?
Me: Oh me? No, I just started here. I'm just home for a short time before I do a show in July.
FHC: WOW! You're an actor? Like Shakespeare or Ed Norton?
Me: More like Liza Minelli.
FHC: Cool. Is it in New York?
Me: Uh, no. (nervous chuckle) Rhode Island.
FHC: (her eyebrows falling back to their normal position) Oh... that's... still cool. Yeah. Great experience.
Me: Yeah, right. What are you up to these days?
FHC: Yeah, I work for a PR firm in the city and I was just back to see my little brother's lacrosse game.
Me: Oh cool! (again, betraying my complete lack of interest and struggle for a follow up. Honestly, what could I possibly ask about marketing or PR? "Is your desk cool?").
FHC: I guess I'm going to have a low carb burger with blah blah....
Me: (shoot me.)

Nah, waiting tables isn't for me. Plus, I hate touching half eaten food. Fuck, if I got a sesame seed or lentil stuck underneath my fingernails... let's not even go there.

My dad had a great idea: what about becoming a substitute teacher! On paper, great idea. Reality = loser. Just think back to those poor bastards that would sit uncomfortably while "their" class worked on dittos (a word that has not once graced my ears since 12th grade. "Yeah Bob, go ahead and copy those spreadsheets for the meeting, and if you could copy some dittos, we need to focus on homonyms this week. Thanks a bunch.") I mean, I would be abused and want to jab out my eyes when I went to turn on the DVD and couldn't figure it out. Just stamp "FAILURE" across my forehead (and above my special parts, to save future generations). Plus with today's kids, listening to rock and roll, and wearing outfits that would make Courtney Love blush... I couldn't handle it.

Well, I shall continue my vain search. Until tomorrow!

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Alive and Well

Hey everybody. As you can see, I have not posted in about a month! Unheard of, I know. I'm doing just great here in Paris, it's just that I don't have time right now for posting (also, I try to avoid my computer like the clap. When I am on my computer, I have to check my work email which is always a depressing experience). Look forward to the blog starting up again in mid-March... when I come home for four months! Whoa.
Until then,

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Star Struck

So apparently I met somebody famous the other night:

Bruce Grobbelaar

Anybody? Anybody? Goalie for Liverpool FC in the 80s-90s? Yeah, I didn't know who he was either. I'm an American for christ's sake. Liverpool has only one association in my mind... the Beatles. But hey, apparently this guy is known for being an arrogant prick. Eh, he was nice enough. His wife was quite chatty and rather friendly.

But heck, I thought I'd throw that out there in case anybody is like "YOU MET BG??!!" He wasn't the "ask for an autograph" type.

Qui non?

Hey everybody, sorry for the inconsistant blog posts recently. I have been busy... blah blah blah. Who isn't busy these days? Well, I have also been spending nearly all of my free time daydreaming. About what, you ask? Good question. Remember how I wrote a few posts before about how I wish I could work on a farm in Mongolia? I've been thinking about it recently and I had a bit of an epiphany:

Why not?

("Qui non?" coincidentally, was the family motto of the Marquis de Lafayette. Coincidence or cosmic connection? I prefer the latter. Also, if I ever got a tatoo, it would be that phrase)

I guess I am realizing that I don't have to do anything! I don't have to have a "real" life right now. Why go for the predictable? I mean, I honestly hate my job. Imagine that! I love being a tour guide, but I hate being involved in the business end of it. Damn you promotions! It takes a certain type of person to do these things, or a certain large sum of money, both of which I lack. I can't do it. I am going to tell my boss that I don't want to go to Spain with the company. I would be miserable, working 70 hours a week, and for what! The money is not there. The experience isn't either. I wouldn't appreciate Spain, because I would be working all the time. No. There has to be something else. I need to keep going, but this is not the way to do it.

As long as I am eating, sleeping, and not spending my parent's money, I can really do anything. So, I think I am going to go for it. I want to head for the hills. Trek through swamps. I want to brush sharp branches out of my face and have them cling for life to my shirt sleeves. I want to cut my knee on a rock. I want to eat things that others would laugh at. I want to be completely unable to communicate with another human being. I don't want to worry about cost management, governmental taxes and registration, or expansion of partner businesses. Come on. F that.

The only thing keeping me in Paris is the people: my friends and the awesome people I work with. But, come April, I'm outta here. It may not be Mongolia... but something like it. All I have to say is: Who's with me?

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Heal the World

Beloved reader! I feel like it's been so long. At least four days. How are things? Glad to hear. Well, life is still going over here. The monotony of work was finally broken last night with one of those nights that, when you lay down to sleep, you pause a moment, reflect, and say "did that really just happen?" Shall I tell the story? Great, have a seat.

The day started out normally with a tour and various other errands to run before five o'clock. What kept my spirits up was the thought that a buddy from college (Laurence) was in Paris and looking to have a few drinks that night. Fantastic. I meet up with him on the evening tour, we explore Montmartre and the tour ends. When we are walking away for a bite to eat and a nip of grandpa's ol' cough medicine, I ask Mary (another tour guide) if she'd like to come along. Sure! Great. We look around and settle on a cute little place playing Cuban music and serving sandwiches. Great.

We walk inside (me, Laurence, his two cousins [one looked a bit like Natalie Portman...], and Mary, soon to be joined by Ellen) and have a seat at the table near the door. As we enter, a group of about 8 middle aged people sitting in the back all turn around and look at us, seemingly judging us. Nevermind them.

We order up a few liters of wine, a crepe or two, and several sandwiches. After receiving our wine, the waiter brings us over some cheese balls to munch on. For free. That's enough to make a night special (especially in Paris). This place is pretty cool. We get our food (which was delicious) and finish the vino. Throughout the course of the meal, the other group of people are being quite noisy. Like, drunk noisy. Jeez, get some manners.

As we finish, the group calls us over. Apparently Mary had been talking to them after she went to the bathroom and made friends. Ok, let's check this out. We get up and walk over to them. It turns out that there is a ringleader (his name, we find out later, is "Angel") who is about to lead the group in a "Circle of Good Deeds".


We all join hands. Well, joining hands is the wrong image. We link thumbs and forefingers. Next, we all point our free index fingers towards the center, start chanting, and raise the mass of conjoined fingers to the ceiling in a faux-"hands in" cheer. If you think that this sounds weird and out of place in a Cubanish restaurant, you're not alone. I was crapping my pants. I was expecting them to whip out a cauldron of goat's blood for us to bathe in next. Luckily, after the Circle of Good Deeds (it has a catchier name in French...apparently), we made a "Communal Circle" dance. Angel's explanation was thusly: We need to learn how to make friends. We need to learn how to share. We need to learn how to be kind. Therefore, we need to learn how to be happy. And, according to crazy French guy, that means we need to chant and hold hands and move around in a circle in a restaurant with a random group of strangers. Cool. He said that we chant because it takes our minds off of other distractions. We are not thinking, because chanting does not involve much thought. A good idea on paper, but maybe my brain is warped because as we were chanting I couldn't help but think that this is one of the oddest social interactions of my life.

It sounds like I am making this stuff up. Yeah, we are all just friends who went out for a drink. Yeah, we chose a Cuban coffee bar. Yeah, we started blessing the Earth with a group of random adults led by a guru who I feel like I have seen before in a dream (no joke. This guy's face was extremely familiar. I don't know what to make of it). All in a night's work. After buying eachother food and drink (they gave us a salmon/bruschetta dish and we gave them a bottle of wine) they left and invited us to a Mardi Gras party at this famous club down the road.

So, either we stay and call it a night, or continue with the group of crazy people. Is that a choice at all? Bring on the loonies.

We dance the night away in a cool club surrounded by people in costume and horny old men. I could have done without the latter.

Not a bad night. I'm off to slumber. Tour in the morning.

Saturday, February 2, 2008

In Pursuit of Sanity

You might have noticed that I changed the name of my blog from "Wilkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome" to "In Pursuit of Sanity". I chose to change it for a couple of reasons: Firstly, it's more applicable. WBW was a reference to Cabaret (obviously), which I directed during my senior year of college. It was the only thing I could think of at the time. Second, IPoS is just friggin catchy and appropriate. It reflects my ongoing struggle to reach that Holy Grail of mental stability rather nicely.

Have you noticed that you can really track my mental stability via the posts? I think somebody should chart my progression, look at my past posts and graph my up's and down's. Then, you can predict when I will be feeling good (like right now) and feeling pretty bad (a few days ago).

On second thought... that's a scary idea. Please don't do that. I will feel like a robot, lacking any free will, if somebody could predict my emotions.

Anyway! I am off to a cafe as it is a gorgeous Parisian day. Pretty cold, but a bright sun.

Friday, February 1, 2008


I have to admit it's getting better. A little better all the time.

I am successfully drawing the line between work and life. Ahh!! The feeling of liberation is beyond words. I am actually smiling! Who would have thought? Life is not for working! It's for living! It's for enjoying! The hills are alive with the sound of music and flowing wine! Spill libations in honor of Dionysus!

I had the epiphany today. The "breakthrough", if you will. I can't kill myself over work. I am one person, capable of many things, but I have my limits. Putting my eyes out over a missed tour is beyond my limits. Life is about food, drink, rest, enjoyment, sex, and shelter. Work should facilitate the acquisition of those. The gospel according to Matty.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Around the World in 800 Words

I just realized that I haven't given an "I'm doing well!" post in a while. I knew you were worried about me. Thank you for your concern.

Things are going reasonably well here in Paris. I mean, I am busy as hell. As the City Manager (in capitals), it is my duty to make sure that the entire company is running smoothly, from tours to pub crawls to deliveries to pick-ups (don't ask) to staff morale. It's on my mind 24 hours a day. What's the pay-off? Well, I live in an apartment in Montmartre, which is one of the artistic centers of the city. Pretty cool. I also have a bit of cash to blow at reasonably priced restaurants. That's nice. Otherwise, I guess that having this experience is good for any sort of job in the future. I mean, management of an entire branch of a multi-national company. Not too shabby.

In case you can't tell from my tone (which is rather dry), I am not overjoyed with this position. I don't like being the bad guy. I don't like working at all hours of the night. I am not paid enough to make it all feel better.

Solution: I need to find a way of seperating work from life. Unfortunately, my apartment is also the office, so I am always surrounded by work related things. Plus, my cell phone is always at my side, meaning my boss can (and does) contact me at any hour. That sucks. But, if I can successfully switch from work mode to leisure mode more effectively, that would make life much more enjoyable. We'll see how that goes.

Perhaps subconsciously I betrayed my true emotions today when I spent two hours looking for jobs in Mongolia. No joke.

My dream advertisement:
"Mongolia- A family of fifteen is looking for an energetic, somewhat mentally inconsistant, young man to help around the house and farm. Room and three daily meals included. Tasks include: milking the dogs, planting jelly beans, chopping wood, chanting, folk dancing, and marrying the eldest daughter. Pay is minimal."
Mmmm... I can already smell the freshly fermented horse milk.

I think that a criteria for my next destination is that I have to have a remote possiblity of being killed. I'm not talking about mercenary soldier work in Kenya. But there should at least be a slight chance that I will catch an infectious disease somewhere.

Just kidding. Somebody revive my mother.

But you get my point. I am growing bored of Western European culture. Not that there is anything wrong with it, it's just not a heckova whole lot different than American culture. I was looking for a knock-me-on-my-ass cultural experience in Europe... and it's not really here. We are all very similar. That's one thing I've learned. It's ridiculous to hate the French or hate the Germans or hate Americans. We're basically the same. We have a shared history. Houli and I had a discussion related to this: How our generation is really the first one to be able to break down long established stereotypes via the backpacking phenomena. Young people travelling after college, meeting others doing the same thing. This is what it takes to realize that "others" are not so different. Instead of being a slave to how media usually portrays the "other", we can make judgements for ourselves. "Hey, that American isn't an arrogant asshole! Hey, that Iranian is a nice guy! Hey, that Australian isn't a drunk! Wait.. no.. he's drunk." That's why I want to go somewhere that isn't white, Christian, technologically up-to-date. Something that is truly different and unseen. I imagine I would discover that "they" are not so different from "us" either... but I want to actually see that. In due time, young Matthew. First, I have a job in France to attend to, then Spain.
After that... the world is my oyster.


watch this, especially at 2:00 minutes.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Jamie's Crying

Oh man. I am sitting it my room right now. It's Monday night at 11:45pm. A baby or young child of some sort is crying in the apartment below me. I gotta tell you: it's breaking my heart. The sound of a child in distress can transcend cultural/linguistic/national borders. It's pure. It's terrible.

Christ. I can't stand it. It sounds like this kid is crying his eyes out. I know, sometimes a child can be stubborn and outright wrong. I was that way until the age of 21. But dammit, cut 'em some slack. This kid is wailing. Oh man. This is really effecting me. I kind of want it to stop, but at the same time I am thinking "Keep going kid!"

Oh hell. I don't know what I am saying. I just want him/her/it to stop...

Wait. It stopped. Ok. I am going to sleep. Hang in there kid.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

They're Grrrreat!

I awoke this morning for one reason:

Breakfast cereal.

I just got a new cereal, and let me tell you, the sun is shining bright in central France. In all honesty, I haven't eaten cereal in many years. Throughout college I got into the habit of a solid nutritious breakfast of eggs, toast, yogourt, etc. Cereal was a part of my past. It was childish. I would be ashamed. Not to mention, the selection was abysmal: either bible-thin flakes dunked in crack or goat-poop chocolate balls that left minute lacerations on my tongue. Um, no. I'll pass thankyouverymuch.

Until now! I found a cereal here that is manly. Thick flakes... no, "flakes" will not do. Women eat flakes... ah yes, CHIPS. Much more manly. Thick chips covered in oats, grains, and corn. The things that men eat. The staples in the hearty diet of every lumberjack. Chips so thick that it sounds like I am eating shards of broken glass. In fact, I put shards of glass in the bowl because I am so manly. I can take it. Look at me. One hundred and sixty pounds of man, wood, grain, and sex.

What is the name of this Valhalla of Vitality, this Elysium of Extacy, this Heaven of Heterosexuality?

Nestle's Fitness: For the Line, For the Form.
On the front of the box is a the outline of a woman and an unnecessarily magnified picture of the cereal on a silver spoon. There are many varieties, including chocolate, cappoccino, and normal, but I chose multi-grain.

Fitness is one of those cereals that is marketed towards women, kind of like Special K (though Special K is also available). What I love is that there is absolutely nothing in this cereal that is especially women-friendly. It's cereal for Darwin's sake! Damn those marketeers and their good ideas. Now men across the planet who are looking for a cereal that is high in fiber, low in sugar, and not Wheaties (I hate Wheaties for the above mentioned reason that they are so thin that the cereal transforms into a brown paste in five minutes, not to mention the agony of trying to fish for the last few flakes in the bowl. At that point, my only motivation is clearing the bowl of debris, as the pay-off is certainly not the flavor) must go for the cereals marketed towards women. What does this mean? Do the marketeers think that women are smarter and healthier than men?
Eh, they're probably right.

Friday, January 25, 2008


Dude. I am tired. Work has kept me quite busy recently. Deliveries, interviews, tours, problems, pub crawls. I need a vacation. But by tomorrow, most of it will be done. So, no post today, but tomorrow you can learn about how I overheard a drug deal at a cafe and the other random goings-on.

Until then,

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Wow. I wrote that last one late at night while delirious from a very long day of work. Please excuse the childishness. Though, reading it again, I kind of chuckled.

Monday, January 21, 2008

To Pee or Not To Pee

So I was peeing just a few seconds ago and I realized something: I am very self-conscious of the audible volume of my pee. Allow me to explain: When a dude is peeing, he has to aim his pee-stream. It's only natural and completely understandable. But where to direct the stream?

Option number 1: You can aim for the porcelain interior of the bowl (not in the water), thereby dulling the pee-sounds. But then people will be like "Dude, what's with that guy? I can't even hear him! He went inside to pee and I can't hear him. Is he even peeing? He must have a serious problem. Either he must have big prostate or a small wee wee. Let's not socially interact with him."

Option number 2: You can pee at the edge of the water. This produces a higher pitched pee-sound, but this can again be misinterpreted. Let's be honest, everybody can hear me pee. If I choose option 2, they will think I am a sissy with my falsetto pee-sound.

No, I choose option 3: Pee in the middle of the bowl, right into the water where it is deepest (meaning it is right into the pipe that takes the pee to the cesspool). In order to pull off an option 3, a dude needs balls. He needs moxy. He needs gusto. It takes a great deal of confidence to pee here, as everybody can hear you. You must be proud to say "Yes, listen to me pee. It is a solid stream and I am proud of it. I have a deep sexy baritone pee-voice." And who even knew that pee-voice's existed! You do, most righteous reader. You do.


Miss Information

Right when I finished my previous post, I go back to for some last minute browsing (even though the writing is terrible and filled with errers. Why cant they even spell corectly?).

The Headline reads: Thousands pay respect to Hillary
Wow. If this was important enough to be ranked under the Top Stories section, this must mean that Hillary is pulling ahead of Obama. Dammit. Let's read the article and find out what happened!:

AUCKLAND, New Zealand (AP) -- Thousands of New Zealanders filed solemnly past the casket of Mount Everest conqueror Sir Edmund Hillary on Monday as they paid final respects a day ahead of his state funeral.

You've got to be kidding me. Kudos to the guy, as I don't think it gets any more bad-ass than climbing Mt. Everest... but come on. Talk about mis-leading information. I think we could use a credible source now for some closing comments. Eh, fuck it, let's ask this guy on the street (I quote):

"He was a great man of the last century," said Jagpal Kang, 56, an Auckland taxi driver.

Thanks Jagpal. You're a real pal.

Nom de Guerre
Headline reads: "Ex-Warlord confesses to 20,000 deaths".
Scary stuff. Curiosity seizes my fingertips as I click the hyperlink. Scanning the article, I stop, blink a few times, scratch my head, and return to the first sentence. It reads as follows:

MONROVIA, Liberia (AP) -- One of Liberia's most notorious rebel commanders, known as Gen. Butt Naked, has returned to the nation his troops terrorized to confess, saying he is responsible for 20,000 deaths.

His name is Gen. Butt Naked. Honestly, if I was looking to strike fear into the hearts (or stir the bowels) of my enemies with a kick-ass name, "butt naked" would be towards the bare-bottom of my list. Right there alongside Sgt. Snowflakes and Captain Pussy Willow (that was Snoop's name before he hit it big). Dude, if I had to give myself a worthless rank and change my name I think I would choose either:
1. General Piledriver
2. Rear Admiral Ass Kicker
3. Sgt. Slaughter (dammit, that one is already taken...)
4. Captain Big Guns
5. Col. Fuck Off

Is it just my imagination, or can all of those be porn movies as well? Huh.
But in all fairness, Gen. Butt Naked's name derived from "sending troops into battle naked to terrorize enemy." Well, does Mr. Naked have something he'd like to share with the rest of the class? He insists on personal control of thousands of naked screaming men? Oh really?? If I lived in a small village, I don't think I would be any more terrorized by naked soldiers compared to fully clothed ones. In fact, quite the opposite. Clothed soldiers can wear scary uniforms and cheap sunglasses circa 1983. But naked soldiers? Dude. I think Mr. Naked is trying to reach out to us.

Reading along:
"Drugged fighters waltzed into battle wearing women's wigs, flowing gowns and carrying dainty purses stolen from civilians."

You've got to be kidding me. Did they also have Liza Minelli playing over the loudspeakers?
And what's with the adjective "waltzed"? Well, if you ask me, it's pretty tough to waltze into battle. I doubt they mean that literally, as waltzing is hard enough (and a tad antiquated), never mind being simultaneously drugged up.

Wait... how can his troops be naked but also wear flowing gowns? Damn you CNN!