we almost kinda coulda had san diego

This past weekend was San Diego Comic-Con, aka the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. It's the only time people who look like me get to mingle with one another, share our nerddom and also mingle with those who are much more physically attractive than ourselves, and the only time those people have to acknowledge us.

I didn't get to go to Comic-Con this year, though I did send a writer. I really wanted to go. I asked my boss. Last year, when they didn't send me, they said that they'd made a mistake and that I would definitely go this year. Instead, I came into the office and helped an intern move, and as a result, I missed my Rendezvous with Alba.

I can already see how it would've went. I would've been perusing long boxes for Zatanna memorabilia and copies of "Kraven's Last Hunt," the greatest Spider-man story ever told (I already have it of course in single issue form, but they're in New York, and it would be nice to have some extra copies--just in case). Maybe she would be looking for issues of Sin City to bone up on her Nancy Callahan character for the sequel, or perhaps her involvement in the comic book movie world would have sparked her interest in sequential art and she would be looking to expand her comic book horizons.

Our quiet searches would've caused us to accidentally bump into one another. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she would've said. I would've gotten sweaty in response. In my haste to shield myself from her overpowering sexy lasers (its' been a long weekend), I would've stammered something illegible and tried to move away, but she'd have labeled me a savvy comics vet because of my Sandman hat, pants and T-shirt and would've asked, "Are these any good?" She would've been holding a couple copies of Love and Rockets and I would've heard cello music.

From there, we'd grab a pick bite to eat so she could "pick my brain about comics." I'd suggest Al Aqua 2 just a few blocks away. I'd tell her that I'd eaten there the last time I was at Comic-Con in 2005, and I thought it was great. We'd head over there in her Prius. I'd order some sort of fish thing. ...I haven't really thought about what she'd get. Then she'd put it on her Amex card and I'd give a big sigh of relief, because that shit was fucking expensive. On the way back, the conversation would turn to other things: work, stress, Icanhascheezburger, you know, the important things. She'd tell me she just became single and was hoping to get her mind off things. I would've silently cursed the false claims of my "all day dry" antiperspirant.

Of course, upon our return to the convention center, reality--or as reality as the Comic-Con would get--would soon set in. Her pocket PC would've been raging with messages and she'd say something like, "I almost forgot about that press junket," or, "I can't believe I have to take that photo op with Dain Cook. He's such a tool," or, "I have to meet up with my manager so we can catch our plane out in a few hours." Or something like that. We'd wave and say it was nice to meet you, and I'd become just another balding 30-something fat-ish man in the Comic-Con crowd. Back where I belong, with my brethren. If I'd gone to San Diego.

odaijini

I've officially become a patron of the arts. The other day, I got a print by Audrey Kawasaki, who's one of my favorite artists right now. It's not like it's a very long list; I'm not very astute when it comes to following artsy stuff. Still, I'm extremely excited. When I ordered the print, I wasn't sure that I got through in time. Four weeks later, when I was pretty much sure that I hadn't gotten it, a well wrapped package appeared at my office and I hopped from desk to desk showing it off. It's not very big--just a 10" x 8" print--and it only cost me $55 all together with shipping, but I've never really owned a piece of art before. The print is on archival paper and is number 9 of 200, which makes the comic collector nerd in me get a stiffy (OMG!!! First TEN?!!11). Right now, she's off being framed (on the company's account) and I'm already scoping the walls of my little studio for the perfect spot. I may have to sell the car to get more of this stuff.

you can't cross the wall...nobody crosses the wall...

Spider-Man 3 is the best movie of 2007. I haven't seen it yet, but I don't have to. The trailers give me chills. Seriously. I think about the movie and my nipples get hard. I don't even have to go see it. In fact, I might just buy tickets to it and never go. It's already really fucking good in my head, and I wouldn't want to ruin it. That being said, there will be other movies that will tickle my fancy (I have a fancy to be tickled) this coming year. Ninja Cheerleaders for one. Also, the Transformers movie. That should be good. But the best of the bunch after The Best Movie of All Time Ever may be Stardust, based on the graphic novel by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess, both of whom I've met, so I count as close personal friends.

(OK...on a side note, here's how I think Spider-Man 3 is going to go. At first, I thought it looked like putting Venom in it would be too much, because there's already Harry Osborn taking the mantle of the Green Goblin and the Sandman as Uncle Ben's killer and I figured they couldn't do that all in one movie. BUT, then I started thinking about it: So, Spidey finds out this new supervillain is really the mofo who offed his uncle, so he seeks revenge and fucks him the fuck up. This rage causes bad feelings to swelter which opens him up to the new black suit symbiote thing. THEN! Harry Osborn is all uppity so Spidey serves him something fierce, but they were tight homies so Spidey is all bummed. He realizes the suit's making him do bad things so he tears it off and then it finds Eddie Brock and becomes Venom and then Spidey has to engage in a metaphorical and actual battle against the rage that consumed him. And he makes out with Mary Jane a bunch of times. And I'll probably lose my shit in the theater and scream "FUCK HIM UP SPIDEY!!!" I've put a lot of thought into this.)

Anyway. Stardust. Here's the trailer. It stars Michelle Pfeiffer, Robert DeNiro, Ricky Gervais and Claire Danes, who I thought was super dreamy back when the graphic novel was originally released.

In other movie related news, rumors have surfaced that Kate Beckinsale may star in the Barbarella remake.



Squee.

sea creatures

I check my site traffic once a week at Stat Counter. I don't have any good reason for this other than my slight megalomania. My favorite feature of the Stat Counter site is the recent visitor map because I'm a bit of a map nerd--in addition to the 40 other types of nerd-dom I subscribe to. This is a screen shot taken from my most recent visitor map, which I think proves that either dolphins have the Internets or that some other kind of unknown sea beasty is able to use its powers of telepathy to scan the World Wide Web for pictures of chicks. If you are the unidentified sea creature who visited this site for 2:45 looking for a "groupie" picture, please make yourself known. For me, and for science.

synchronicity

Ever since I was introduced to the term in my parapsychology class (I used to smoke a lot of weed), I've been a wholehearted subscriber to the phenomenon of synchronicity. Like most ideas championed by Carl Jung, it just made sense to me. Once I was introduced to the idea, I began seeing instances of synchronicity all the time in my own life and in the world around me, and that's even after I stopped smoking a lot of weed. Today, synchronicity struck once more in the form of the impressively foreheaded and increasingly sexy-fied Christina Ricci.

I've liked Christina since she was in The Addams Family (not in that way because she was just a baby) and have more or less enjoyed her career since. If for no other reason, she's managed to transition from child star to adult actor with out too many bumps in the road or time spent in rehab (though I could be wrong about the rehab thing, it's hard to keep track lately). And in Buffalo '66 she managed to star alongside Vincent Gallo without vomiting or showing visible signs of nausea. She didn't even have to give him a blow job like some other skank. Now if those aren't signs of a true professional, I don't know what are.

But today was a particularly trying day of work in which I actually had to be a manager and man up to my boss about how I thought things were going. I had to conduct meetings and get people to contribute, which they did, and the talk went okay, so I maybe I'm not all that bad at what I do, though I'm still not at all convinced. Luckily, there were Hershey Kisses in the candy dish and these pictures of Ms. Ricci from the Black Snake Moan premier to help replace my self doubt with some good ol' fashioned lust (which is a much better thing to be mulling about, I can assure you). I don't know when Christina got so bangin' (technical term), but I'm sure glad it happened. And wouldn't you know it? When I got home, I found that Cursed, a kinda shitty werewolf movie, was playing on Encore, starring none other than Christina Ricci. I watched it happily over peas and pork chops. The Universe sure is a wacky place.

In un-Christina Ricci-related news, I went to go see Ghost Rider tonight, and it was about as good as it looks in the previews. It definitely could have been worse, especially as comic book movies go. I'd place it better than Ang Lee's Hulk, but a hell of a lot more cheesy than anything else that's come from Marvel recently. The film made me realize a few things:

• Ghost Rider is a Texan who's a motorcycle riding daredevil by day and turns into a fiery skeleton thing in a leather jacket with chains and spikes and stuff at night. Pretty much, he's a hero who appeals to white trash trailer park residents everywhere.
• I'm amazed people don't talk about Eva Mendes's butt more because it's almost as hot as her rack.
  
• Any movie, no matter how shitty (and this one was pretty damn shitty), becomes instantly cooler as soon as Sam Elliot shows up.
  

Seriously, why hasn't this guy gotten some kind of lifetime achievement award yet? Has the academy seen Roadhouse? He played Patrick Swayze's grizzled old mentor who still had a little bit of gas in the tank for a down home, bar burnin' slobber knocker. He drank shitty beer from the bottle and danced with Kelly Lynch. He was a MAN amongst men. Well, except for the beer drinkin' and dancin', he played pretty much the same role in Ghost Rider. Rough, tobacco-juice-spittin', salty, he was a man with a mysterious past who worked as a caretaker in this utterly random cemetery on the edge of nowhere and seemed to know just about everything regarding Ghost Rider's bizarre situation. He'd been there, man, to hell and fuckin' back. He bought the T-shirt and spilled shitty beer on it and used it to wipe the tears from some poor girl's eyes as she watched everything she knew burn to the ground. And he's got the best voice ever. I'm just saying. Academy, get on that shit.

what to get for that special loser in your life

now back to your regularly scheduled whining

When we got back from Vegas this evening, I dropped my friend off at his house and went inside to use the bathroom. Turned out, his girlfriend got left his Valentine's Day gifts in his room. He got a tube-thing of Toblerone (which he gave me some of because he doesn't eat chocolate (SCORE!)) and two tickets to a basketball game. I, of course, returned home to nothing. But when I checked my e-mail, it turned out that there is someone out there who loves me--Missy from Suicide Girls.

For a few short months last year, I was a proud member of the Web site, paying a scant couple bucks to peruse countless archives of photos of tattooed, pierced gothy-punky girls lounge about in their skivvies, and even completely naked. But that credit card expired, and when it did, I decided not to renew the account. I guess we weren't meant to be, but I will always have fond memories of the times we spent together on my roommate's laptop.

Since then, SG founder Missy has been trying to woo me back, making all kinds of special offers. This is the most recent attempt:

Here's what's new in the world of SuicideGirls, real quick: Our Burlesque tour is opening for Guns N Roses, some of the original SuicideGirls starred in an episode of CSI NY and Showtime is airing our newest movie, The Italian Villa.

SUMMARY: We have been having a lot of fun without you.

But something's been missing. That's right, we miss you. Seriously. Come give us another try. We'll make you a special price.

Tempting, yes, but I don't think I'll take her up on her offer. The e-mail concludes with a link to get my name taken off their marketing list, but I'm not going to click that either. I mean, it's nice to be pursued.

three card monte

I'm such a sucker for card tricks. I know it's not really magic, but it might as well be. I figured in honor of my trip to Vegas--speaking of which, I should be asleep already--I'd post this in hopes that I won't get swindled out of all my money. Just most of it.

my new phone rocks and allows me to feel socially superior

After many good months of service (probably around two years) with my trust bulky Sanyo, I've upgraded my cell phone to something more of a "mobile device" with a sleek, sexy, socially conscious Motorola Razr v3 Red. It has Bluetooth and these two little memory card things that serve some purpose, and fit in some phone slot, that remain unknown to me. It can also take video, receive e-mail, take photos, has voice recognition, is GPS and Sprint Vision TV "ready." I will use almost none of these functions, except for taking photos of myself when drunk. I worry if there'll be video.

Other than it being damn sexxxy, it's also a decent karma booster as Sprint and Motorola donate $17 for each phone sold to the Global Fund, which fights AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria in impoverished nations. So I can add that to the list of reasons why I'm better than everyone.

my hero...ine... heroine is with an e right?

It's official. A very industrious and civil-minded geek has started a petition to install Olivia Munn (now officially a friend of this space, seeing as she's now been written about twice). It can be viewed and signed here. There are certainly more noble petitions. But while this may not ensure the well being of our children and our children's children, it will, at least, give you something to do while you should be working (like me).

It would be nice to get an unknown to play such an iconic figure. I though that formula worked really well in the most recent Superman movie (even though I was really disappointed with how Kate Bosworth portrayed Lois Lane. I really expected more). Honestly, regardless of who they get, I'm getting kind of stoked about a Wonder Woman movie. Buffy's Joss Whedon is writing and directing so at the very least it'll be fun and entertaining.

i'm addicted

I can't stop signing petitions.

A MySpace bulletin from my friend, the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (we go back) alerted me to the plight of its brethren Tongass National Forest, which is also in Alaska. I won't go into it, but it's about logging. This time, I even wrote a personal note to Forest Service Chief Dale Bosworth on why I thought he should reconsider. Nevermind that until yesterday, I never knew Alaska even had a rain forest, and even if I had, I'd be too afraid to go to it. I thought it was a good letter, though. And I like to think of Alaska as some undiscovered wilderness where you can get a pint of dark beer in the middle of the day next to a bull moose and a Kodiak bear.

Before that, I received an e-mail about a BoDog artist named Nazanin Afshin-Jam, who apparently succeeds at a lot of things, but is most notable for her ability to make me realize that I'm a selfish piece of shit. She was Miss Canada, runner up of Miss World and is now a pop star who has fought endlessly to use her position in the spotlight to raise awareness of humanitarian issues. The e-mail told the story of another Nazanin, a young girl of 17 who was sentenced to death in Iran. Afshin-Jam, herself an Iranian immigrant whose family fled Tehran during the revolution of 1979, was alerted to the story when someone who was doing a Web search for the imprisoned Nazanin found her pop star namesake instead.

Nazanin was out with her niece when a group of men tried to rape them. She ended up stabbing one of them in self-defense, and he later died. There was a petition to keep her from being executed, which must have worked because she was exonerated of the murder charges. I had already signed it though. I guess I missed the boat on that one. Anyway, now she's got to pay blood money or something for killing the dude and her family's dirt poor. There's a fund for that...but NO petition. I feel useless.

If that weren't enough, a third petition (of sorts) was brought to my attention, one the struck closer to home. Olivia Munn, co-host of G4's Attack of the Show and Queen Lord of My Fan Boy Heart, threw her lasso in the race to be the next Wonder Woman. As if being funny and beautiful and knowledgeable about video games weren't enough. I think this qualifies as evidence that there is a God, and his comics collection is about 400 long boxes deep.



(I'm also pretty stoked on parentheses.)

don't label me

Ok, I just spent about half-an-hour going back over previous posts and adding labels to them. Isn't that awesome? Well? From the looks of the list, I lead a pretty sad and lonely life, which is probably why I have a blog. That is all.

the march of time

I've officially had two hangovers at age 30, and both of them have been unbelievably miserable. In general, they've been getting worse over the past year, but the most recent ones have been really bad. Last night, during my sprint home from the bars (it was a really weird night, and power walking felt really good), I acquired a particularly nasty headache. I knew I was in for it.

I woke up, miraculously, on the pleather love seat with the Bloomberg News Network blaring its nauseating mix of headlines, stock market figures and other such stats. I really don't remember putting that on, but I may have knocked into the remote in my sleep. It was 6AM.

Immediately, I moved to the bathroom to take a dump and got really paranoid about whether or not I was about to throw up. I hustled out of the bathroom, put on my shoes and went outside. I'm not sure why, but I've made up my mind that if I am going to throw up, I'd rather do it outside like an animal than inside like a real human being. I found a good spot in the back corner, right by the fence and between two trees. It never happened. I ended up staying out side for a good hour, taking in the morning air like some kind of nature person would. It was really comforting and meditative. I'm staunchly anti-vomiting, so I won't force myself to puke even if it will make me feel better. I'd rather ride it out, which I think stems from my guilt-ridden Catholic upbringing.

I came back in the house to turn off my alarm clock and ended up sitting on my bedroom floor with my back up against my bed. I may have dozed off once or twice before I got on the bed and sat with my back against the wall. Then, I pulled my pillows closer to me and rested my head on them, laying down on my side, my feet, still in shoes were on the floor. I was fully dressed, in a hoodie. I slept, on and off, until after 1PM. When I woke up for reals, I found that all that time outside had caused me to track mud and leaves into my bedroom. I watched some college football and moved minimally.

So yeah, I didn't go out tonight. The shame that would come from spending another day in the same state would be too much to bear at my advanced age. I opted, instead, to play a lot of Final Fantasy XII, which is really coming along nicely. I spent most of the day on the pleather love seat, but around 11PM, my own sloth became just as troubling. I went downtown to get an ice cream Sunday and deposit the checks my roommates gave me for the energy, water and cable bills. I also picked up a six-pack of Lagunitas Brown Shugga', a winter seasonal beer, which isn't going down very well right now. Better luck tomorrow, I guess.

girls and corpses

Why didn't I think of this first? I figured with Halloween looming its debaucherous head, I'd post up a treat. This is probably the best magazine ever of all time. Ever.

in the pit of my stomach

I've got my game face on, and a beard to match. The beard has become somewhat crucial, I think, to the success of the team. It's, at least, gotten them this far. I haven't shaved since the playoffs started, and I'm not going to until the Mets get knocked out, which very well could be tomorrow night. Either way, it's been such an exciting ride, and I'll never forget actually being able to see one of the games--the clinching game of the NLDS--live in front of a hostile crowd that wanted to kill me.

This series against the Cardinals has had so many ups and downs, I feel like I've been on a eight day rollercoaster; between all the rain outs and momentum swings, I may very well be nauseous, and I'm sure tomorrow will have all those things rolled into a single nine-inning game. Between the Stupid Mets (as my mom likes to call them when they're giving us "agita") and work, I've had about enough excitement for the rest of the year.

We're still sitting on the mag, and I'm not sure when it's going out. The past two days have been this sort of weird limbo, which I should be used to by now. I guess I'm too hopeful that things will be better this time around. I've been wanting to write more, but the thought of getting on the computer outside of work hours for anything other than mindless MySpace surfing is extremely unpleasant.

But today was a good day: my parents celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary; I busted out of work at 4pm; I got to watch TV with my roommates, who I miss and haven't seen in about a month; and LOST and the Project Runway season finale (not that I watch that show) were both pretty awesome. Afterward, me and my roomie watched the last half of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which is my all-time favorite, because she hadn't seen the ending. Everytime I see it, I have a different interpretation, but this time I saw a microcosm and a macrocosm, how infinite questions are impossible to answer by finite beings and how we'll all probably die alone in a room somewhere and never really know the answer to anything, and maybe not even the question. As if I didn't have enough on my mind.

I'm hoping for an early start tomorrow and a productive day, and with any luck, the mag will be done and around 8:30pm Pacific time, I'll get a call from father, giggling like a kid, about how the Mets are going to the Series. Until then, I better get some rest.

PS. If I did watch Project Runway, and I don't, it would probably be for moments like this:

do you ever think about butterflies?

I saw this comedian at Bumbershoot in Seattle. It's a really funny short, and I'm sure someone who reads this will get a big kick out of it, if not some awkward flashbacks. Happy Belated Birthday!!!

victory lap

My fantasy baseball season is over. For the second year in a row, I was eliminated in the first round of the playoffs. I thought I had a better shot this year, but all my pitchers decided to crap themselves. None of them consulted me about it. But karma was kind to me. On the same day I was unceremoniously ejected from the playoffs, the New York Mets claimed their spot in the non-fantasy baseball playoffs, beating the Florida Marlins 4-0 and claiming their first NL East title since 1988. I was 11 years old.

My dad called me up right when it happened. I was fixing to eat a bowl of chicken won ton soup at my Chinese family's restaurant. "We did it! We won!" He was shouting and chattering on like a school girl, but I knew what he meant. I ran outside to throw my arms up in the air and shout on the phone. "I'm gonna go eat," I said. "But I guess I'll grab a drink afterward." "Grab a drink!" he shouted. I grabbed four and got home around 10 to watch the highlights on the Internets. I'm still pretty stoked about it, even though it was kind of a foregone conclusion. They had a double digit lead in the standings. It was just a matter of time. But still, being a Mets fan for as long as I could walk and talk, the one thing I know is that if there's a possibility to screw something up, they just might find a way to do it.

Today, I discovered the joys of My Name is Earl, a comedy on NBC starring Jason Lee from Mallrats. He has just about the best moustache ever. I really like the premise--that he's a life long fuck up who hits it big in the lottery and decides to undo every shitty thing he's done in his life. Instead of just throwing money at the problems he's caused, he strives to actually do something about it. It's really fucking funny too. The show also packs two powerful pieces of eye candy in Jamie Pressly and Nadine Velazquez. I used to think Jamie was a big 'ho-bag, which didn't stop me from watching that one Poison Ivy movie she was in over and over again, but I've recently noticed that even if she is a big 'ho-bag, she's a pretty talented one. She's pretty hilarious on the show. Almost as good as that moustache, but a lot easier to look at. Yay, pictures!


Will be on a plane to New York tomorrow evening, and by Thursday I'll be enjoying the fact that I'm in a place where I can get a really good sandwich whenever the fuck I want one. I can taste the chicken parms already.

life in gondwana and the caring hands of dominatrixes

450 million years ago, there weren't any plants. All life on Earth still resided in the oceans and continents--including the Gondwana supercontinent in the sounthern hemisphere--remained dry and barren. Even plants were just getting around to evolving. This is called the Ordovician period. Evidence of this primordial time can be found here, in the confines of my Never Never Land-style college town home where, on Sundays, the streets are bare and it's impossible to find an open restaurant. At least in the dear old Ordovician, you could wrangle yourself some seafood, if you had a taste for sea scorpion.

I promise to go food shopping when I get back from my friend's wedding in New York, assuming I have the money to do so. I don't want to eat out so much anymore, mostly because I'm bored with my choice of dining establishments and because my stomach can no longer be held hostage by the whims of narrowminded businesspeople who don't realize the foolishness of closing their eateries ON A WEEKEND DAY. I was unable to score two of my favorite sandwiches in town (the wasabi-lime tuna melt and the California chicken) because the establishment that offered the former was closed, and the home of the latter was opened but doesn't serve lunch items on Sunday (which is perhaps even more preposterous). I had to settle for Subway. Later, my dreams of a good sushi dinner were met with another locked door, sending me down the path of a burger and a salad, both of which were quite good. I understand that a person can have worse problems, but please remember it's all relative and since a good meal is just about the only enjoyment I get out of life, I take that shit pretty fucking personally.

When I moved out to California, I was a somewhat slim chap with a thick head of hair. It was my first time living out of my parents house and I was some 3000 miles away in a college town that has a ratio of two nubile young females to every hormone-juiced dude. Of course, as luck would have it, I almost instantly became chubby and bald, which was a big boost to my already flimsy confidence. I joined a gym for a little while with my already-athletic female roommates, and though they were very, very supportive of my efforts, I just couldn't get comfortable working out in front of all those people. I think I went about four or five times before I decided the gym wasn't for me.

Since I don't have a car, I do a lot of walking. I really like walking, and even when I don't have to go to work, I go for walks, either just downtown to grab a video or a bite to eat, or longer walks out to the batting cages or the park. It's good. It keeps me active physically, but it also keeps my mind pretty active, and it could use all the help it can get with all the shitty television shows I watch. Still, and this is embarassing me as I type almost to the level of having someone walk in on you while you're masturbating, I've been feeling the desire to exercise more (I think I'm blushing), but I'd be completely mortified if anyone caught me, so, like masturbating, I do it in my room with the door locked.

It's been going good so far. It's been a whole week. For motivational purposes, I've employed the help of Minna Lessig and Julie Upton, who are fitness gurus of Exercise TV, which is available On Demand. They're in ridiculously good shape, and they're kinda good with the motivation stuff, even though I get really embarassed when Julie asks of Minna and their third female cohort, "Ready girls?" I've only ever followed a workout video once before when my "friend" (you know who you are) asked me to do yoga with her. The instructor was Rodney Yee, no doubt an impressive specimen, but an unnervingly bendy and hairless man who comes up with mindboggling instructions like "strong eyes, soft throat," as he implores you to contort your body into impossible poses. Fuck you, Rodney. I settled on Minna and Julie because I think they're kinda hot, and I foolishly tried to convince myself that since they were "chicks" I'd be able to take whatever they threw at me. Real foolish. I've been in a constant state of sore for days now, but I can't let on because I don't want anyone to know what I've been doing. My biggest fear is that someone will walk in on me mid-crunch or knock on the door because I'm huffing and puffing and I'll have to make up some obvious lie. Maybe I'll just tell them I'm jerking off.

i love the onion

Full story here.

delaying the inevitable

I had full intention of writing about my Seattle trip tonight, but I went out and got drunk instead. I drank more rum than I have in quite some time and for no particular reason other than the hot bartender with the shoulder tattoo and the low-slung camo pants really knew how to mix her drinks. I'm a sucker for women with shoulder tattoos...and also women who serve me drinks.

It was a fun night that deposited me at the local watering hole, more fucked up than I wanted to be, and later at the shittiest pizza joint in the universe for a barely palatable piece of pepperoni. As I walked home, a cute chubby girl sitting at the town hall fountain asked me how my night went. I threw my arms up in the air and preached about its unerring awesomeness. I asked her how she did, and she said she was sober, but was yelling at all the drunks who passed by. I threw my arms up again and shouted, "Great!" and she told me I was her favorite drunk and that she loved me and that I should call her. And then she said, "No seriously." But I know she wasn't serious cuz she didn't give me her number.

Like I said, it was a fun night. But I'll credit that more to the fact that I didn't do a lick of work all day as opposed to thanking the alcohol. I did, however, do a lot of surfing and fantasy baseball and football checking. I also checked out YouTube, which, through sheer chance, led me to Ms. Reema Sen. I think she's from India, and she's a very beautiful woman. I think so anyway. And I'm assuming she's a pretty big star in her home country, because, hey, why not?

I don't want to discredit Ms. Sen's fame, because I'm sure she had to work her gorgeous ass off to get to where she is today. However--and I hate to say it--she can't dance her way out of a paper bag, and her unhealthy obsession with mustachioed creepy dudes is really unsettling. REALLY. Check out the clips below, but don't say I didn't warn you.

This one will make you wish you were a beach towel...kinda.



This one brings the pain...



Totally unrelated, but this is my favorite thing right now.