A slice.

June 2, 2009

Preface: Every once in an often the slow drag of the blues gripes me.  Even while on a beach in paradise, the undertow of melancholy is inescapable.

Today I had a slice of pizza for lunch.  I do this about 222 times a year, but toady was different.

This slice of pizza was so god damn delicious it made me want to light myself on fire.

The first bite was all sauce.

The tomatoes must have been vine ripened in the Garden of Eden.  This sauce was the perfect blend of everything.  Garlic, oregano, basil.  And.  It was sweet.   Not sweet like candy.  But, sweet like the first ray of sunshine on a perfect May morning: light, and almost unnoticed.

Then the mozzarella.   It wasn’t cheese at all.  This milky congealer must have been the silk that Athena herself slumbered upon.  A salty heaven.

When all that was gone I was left with the crust.  The dough that made this crust could only have been made by my father’s father.  I never knew the man, but family has told me that he and I we were cut frome the same stone.  He and his brothers were Bakers.  I grew up with the smell of freshly baked bread in my nostrils, and up until about 5 years ago that same bakery was around the corner from the house I live in now.

 

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Team America.

June 1, 2009

I was out of the country for the past five days in the Dominican Republic.   It was, quite laterally, paradise.

I drank, gambled, and yelled at strangers.  These are three of my favorite things  to do in the sun.

Strangely enough whilst yelling at a Russian couple I realised something profound:  Being patriotic is very much like being a sports fan.

Explanation.

There was more than one time when other vacationers, from other countries, would “hate” on me/Americans.

Now, I do realize the massive ego it takes for me to feel as though hating on me means that you hate all Americans.  But, I am in fact American, and that massive ego is why some people from abroad dislike us.  So here we go.

There was a Russian couple in particular that pissed me off the most.  They seemed to be giving me dirty looks all week (I was drunk the whole time, so it’s quite possible it was all in my head).

Finally, on my last full day, my mom, my step-dad, and I were at the pool laughing very loudly and obnoxiously at god only knows what.  That was when this Russian couple (who were out to get me from go) walked by and in a mocking tone said:

[Russian couple] Ohh haha, I am American! Hahaha, jibber jabber.  Americans.

[me] FUCK OFF Russia.

[Russian guy] (who, by the way was three times my size, and could kill me with a pinkie) We are from the Ukraine.  American.

[me] Same thing bro.

Now, the fact that he just kept walking, and did not destroy me in front of his amazingly hot girl friend is amazing.

The funny thing is that he knew exactly who I was and where I was from: a dick from America.  But I noticed them, at first, only because the girls fake tits had been shooting across the resort all week.  Otherwise, my ignorant ass lives in a world that revolves around me, and me only.

This, to me, was just like when I lived in Baltimore and Orioles fans would hate and mock Yankee fans any chance they got to do so.  But, on the same token, Yankee fans were always indifferent at best to thoes same O’s fans.

You see, Yankee’s fans are not even aware of the fact that O’s fans exist, let alone hate on them.  And, if a Yankee fan does become aware of this fact they will undoubtedly say: Who cares?  The O’s are insignificant.  And we have better pizza!

I don’t know what this means.  And, I don’t think people from other countries are “insignificant”.

But.  There is something to be said for the fact that everyone notices us in other countries (and this has happened to me before while traveling abroad), but we just go about our way being harmlessly obnoxious.  Maybe it’s ignorance.  Maybe it’s tolerance.  Maybe it’s just obnoxious.

I apologise if this made no sense.  But, in true American fashion, I just farted it out of my mouth with no regard.


I fuckin’ rule man.

May 20, 2009

Apparently I’m a self absorbed ass hole.  Today at work this happened.

[female co-worker] – “your single right? why don’t you ask her out?”

[me] – “she’s not cute enough”

[female co-worker] – “you think every girl in the world wants you don’t you?”

[me] – “yes”

[female co-worker] – “your an asshole”

[me] – “yes”

This is not my fault people.  I blame my mother.  Every day before school she would tell me that I was very handsome.  What little boy does not believe what his mother tells him?  Am I to think that the person who gave me life (and saved it many times) is a liar?

… Well, I should tell you that this is a woman who, when I was a child would tell me that “The Man” would come take me away if I miss-behaved.

Can you fucking believe that??  There I was like 6 or 7 thinking that my mom was just gonna let some fucker come take me away to god knows where to do god knows what to me.

*shudder*

I’m convinced that is at least part of why I have  such a  self destructive personality. Or something like that…

Anyway, I’m really not that conceited, but people in relationships just get ridiculous sometimes when it comes to being single. They act like us “singles” have some kind of disease.  They always want to “set you up” with someone.  AKA cure you of your single.

I’m doin’ great people!

I do what I want when I want, by myself.  I eat dinner whenever I want, alone.  I don’t have to wait because someone wants to share their day and nice thoughts with me (who wants that?).   I can drink all this wine solo.  The walls of this 70 year old house never talk back (except all night long because I live, practically alone, in a haunted house with lots of EMPTY rooms)…

Wait.  What was I saying?  I forgot cause I just spent that last 15 minutes sobbing.

Xanax.


Toblerone Tuesday

May 5, 2009

Today was Toblerone Tuesday.

Explanation: For a couple of months the deli in the building i work in has been stocking mini Toblerone candies at the register.  This meant nothing to me at first.  Everyone knows wheat the Toblerone candies are, but no one realizes it.

toblerone-chocolate-522042_800_418

Mostly you see this shit at airports in big triangle  boxes.

Anyway, this kid that I was training brought some on a Tuesday and said  (in all seriousness) “Toblerone Tuesday bro.”  And it changed my life.  Since  then I’ve had at least one Toblerone treat every Tuesday.  And! I am in the process of locating their head of marketing and sales, because that person needs to know that this is Toblerone, and it’s “Not just for airports anymore”.

Not bad right?

So, I was drunk this whole post.


Lunch with Pops.

May 2, 2009

Today I’m going to have lunch with my old man and his partner JL (read: gay couple, that is relegated to referring to themselves as if they do business together).  My Pops is has this celiac thing.  That means he is allergic to any thing that has gluten in it.  WHAT THE FUCK!   No bread, pizza, or pasta. This a nightmare for anyone, let alone a 100% Italian guy who grew up in a bakery.  As if this isn’t difficult enough to plan for (finding a restaurant that takes this seriously is very hard) his colleague JL is a vegetarian.  They are impossible to cook for (F.U. I can cook some stuff).  I think they just have lettuce in their fridge, maybe some salt for spice.

Anyway, Pops and JL are just about the kindest most genuine couple you have ever meet.  Hanging out with them is kinda like watching one of those Bob Ross painting shows: very pleasant, kinda boring, but you keep watching. This is hard for me to handle cause I pride myself on my “lowbrowedness” (it’s a word now baby!), and loud obnoxsious nature.

I still can’t figure out where I came from.

So, we’re going to a gluten free restaurant in the Village where I will taunt my dad the entire time with stories of pizza and rigatoni.  In turn he will not let me go hang out with my friends unless he can come.  When I was in high school he would let me use his car.  Every time he would get into the car with me and my Friends and say “Where we goin’ gang!” with a big shitty smile on his face.  This made me want to die, but my friends (all high as a kite) loved it.  I’m still friends with all of those kids so I guess it didn’t hurt my “rep” as bad as I thought it did.

After some wholesome family time I will go drink my face off till I wake on a park bench somewhere on the island of Manhattan at 6am.

What can I say I like to make him proud.


This post requires work on your part.

April 30, 2009

Today I was stuck under ground on a Bronx bound 2 train after another rough day.  While I was waiting for the train to move again I was trying to think of a creative representation of what my brain was going through.  For some twisted reason a scene from this movie I saw like 40 million years ago popped in my head.

The Movie is called The Brood, and if you’ve even heard about it, let alone seen it *pounds*.

It’s some twisted shit.  The real kind of twisted: 70s twisted.  Back then everything wasn’t all sarcastic and snarky.  I don’t even think snarky was a word in the 70s.  It makes for a more honest/scary experience.

So, I’m a weirdo for doing this,  and this is not for the faint of heart and NOT SAFE FOR WORK, but watch from 2min 50 sec to 5min 20 sec on this link. It is the most horrifying 2 1/2 min of film ever made.

That’s how I felt stuck on the 2 train after work today.

P.S. – Pumpkin Seeds…


Is FML a cliche?

April 28, 2009

First off, fuck the accent that’s supposed to go on the ‘e’ in chiche, and fuck you for noticing (if you did not notice *pounds*).  I couldn’t figure out how to type the all important accent.

Anyway, this whole FML this is being over used right?  WHO CARES.  It fits.

Like right now I’m typing this post with one eyeball.  That is because on my walk to the train from work some piece of dirt (aka the Mini Demon Sole of Freddy Kruger) popped into my eye.  So, what did genius JP do???  Rub that eye with a fury.  BRILLIANT!  Now my eye is the color of a tomato, and it is burning like my love for Colt45.

Today was like the FML Prefect Storm.

I woke up at 7:55am.  I need to be at work at the latest 8am.  I called my boss to tell him I was gonna be late.

ME: I’m gonna be late.

BOSS: Is everything ok?

ME: Yes, I overslept because I suck at life.

BOSS: Um, ok. *click*

–*side note* I’m not sure if I’m using the whole *star thingy to describe how/what I’m doing* works, but it’s hella fun and I’ma rock it.

Ok, so then my day resulted in: my worth being questioned, 3k in canceled sales, and the Freddy Kruger thing.

FML!

It just feels good to say that for some reason.

freddy1

My eye hurts.