Tiger Woods Is Good At Golf But Not At Picking Attractive People To Sleep With
Sound soother companies need some new “not batshit crazy” people at the creative table.
I have a sleeping problem. Of course I do: I’m a white guy! We are always “concerned” about something, or have some problem that is just “so tough on us”, you know, like the fact that our Prius has brake warnings or some shit like that. Oh, white people. The advent of the iPhone app store, though, has been a serious boon: you can download a program that has soothing sounds that lull you to sleep. Great concept. However, they have some really poor execution it turns out.
Ambiance, the application, comes with a billion sounds that you can download, and most of them are standard: rainforest (you know, for all those times you remember falling asleep…in the rainforest), thunderstorm (re: white people), ocean (re: rich white people), etc. And then there are the other sounds available for download. Let me run down a few. (note: I am not making a SINGLE one of these up)
- Emergency Room (because the sounds of screaming and people dying always puts me right out)
- Heart Monitor (maybe you enjoy the sound of something that monitors if you are going to die or not)
- Muzzle of Bees (everyone is scared of bees, so this one is logical for “things that calm me down”)
- Electric Knife Sharpener (um…)
- Forest Fire (!!!)
- Warfare (wow.)
So basically, you can choose between “tranquil sounds of nature” or “you’re going to die/biblical plagues and things that kill you”. Does the app double as something you can use to torture people to get information out of them at Guantanamo Bay? Just for fun, I just searched “death” as a joke in the application and got the results “snake pit” and “FerrariF456″. So apparently, they need to work on their search algorithm as well. (Snake pit?!? Really?!?)
Tiger Woods doesn’t have a sex addiction problem, he has an “I shouldn’t have gotten married” problem.
The Tiger Woods thing is just getting weirder and funnier by the day. In a classic celebrity twist, he held a press conference with select people to tell them that he was sorry that he was a jerk, but that more importantly he has a “problem” (and by “problem” he means he likes to do it with girls and made that silly mistake of getting married) and needs to go seek help at a rehab facility. Is the rehab facility called “I’m a dick and cheat on my wife”, Tiger?
Here’s the thing: I don’t really care. It turns out you just held a press conference called “I’m a guy and wanted to have sex.” Great. You don’t have a sex addiction problem. You have an “I’m a dickface” problem. And honestly? That’s cool! Turns out I just like watching you hit a little white ball and don’t really care in turn who you sleep with or what your favorite color is. I just want you to hit the ball really well. Hold a press conference with your wife, because she is the one who actually cares what you do with your bits and pieces. He could honestly wear panties during the Masters, and as long as he keeps being really really ridiculously good at golf? I’m fine with that. Have at it, bud. My only request is that you start sleeping with better looking women if I have to watch the press conference about it. I feel like a guy with a friend who keeps hooking up with ugly chicks at the bar and then telling me later he really regrets that. Just stop hooking up with the ugly chicks, then.
People need to stop going to rehab facilities for sex addiction, because i’m pretty sure the facility is called “don’t get married”. Now hit the white ball again, please.
Traveling with an iPhone is like finally figuring out what it’s like to be a meth addict without the cool “I’m a drug addict and can write a memoir about this later” part.
I was at SFO recently waiting for a flight, and since my flight was delayed I decided to play solitaire. Some people have friends they call, I have solitaire. And I’m okay with that. I digress. The iPhone’s greatest feature is that it runs for about 13 minutes after you charge it.
So this is what iPhone owners have become: creepy guys with cords scratching their face, searching for outlets they can mainline off of for like, 2 minute intervals. JUST TO GET MORE JUICE. I NEED MORE JUICE. YOU GOT MORE JUICE? It’s sick. I feel like I may as well be mumbling to myself while eating random crumbs of a muffin out of my pocket or something creepy like that.
You just wander around, randomly searching for outlets and when you find one, you plug in and sit there Indian style on a floor just to get your fix for a few minutes. You know who else has behavior like this? Drug addicts. So that’s cool. I’ve been whittled down to a meth head just to get my fix of solitaire or to figure out if anyone has tweeted anything funny recently. Sometimes I’m so white it hurts my feelings.
I also realize that I just wrote “Indian style”, and when reading that back, I realized that this is, in fact, not okay to say, ever. But saying sitting cross legged just doesn’t get the point across. Oh, accidental racism. I wish you didn’t work as a perfect imagery device.
On that note.
As always click on the link above to stream it.
Or you can download the whole thing in all its mp3 glory right here.
Think of returning a pair of underpants as an “I can’t do that, ever” kind of thing
The fact that they have to tell me I can’t return used underpants to American Apparel means that someone is, in fact, trying to return used underpants to American Apparel.
So when buying some clothes this evening at American Apparel (don’t worry, i’m judging myself already so feel free to join in), I had the strangest exchange with the lady at the counter. She told me, immediately, “just so you know, you can’t return opened or used underpants.”
I was floored. WHO is returning used underpants? Who thinks this is okay? This has been a cardinal rule that you were taught since, I don’t know, you could wear underpants: you do not share your underpants. Once you wear your underpants, they are your underpants. You know why? Because they go on the part of your body that you are legally not allowed to show other people unless they consent to it. The garment, itself, is even a bit awkward to buy. “Hey, where do you sell the stuff that I hide my junk in? Right there? Cool, thanks.”
What’s more amazing to me is that someone didn’t just think “hey, I wore these underpants and they just weren’t for me, I’m going to take them OFF OF MY JUNK and return them”…they weren’t too embarassed to go give this pair of underpants BACK to a complete and total stranger who is working at a retail store.
Please don’t try and return your dirty underpants to a store. And don’t give me the, “I just opened them, realized before even trying them on that I didn’t like them and then put them back in the bag,” routine. You tried them on. That pair of underpants has touched your bits and pieces. They are yours now. Knock off your gross shenanigans.
Why is ANYONE still driving a Mazda Miata?
Growing up, my family had a running joke about Miata’s, as we thought they looked like a bathtub on wheels. As the internet doubles as a “no wait I have proof” accountability machine that will disappoint you and reveal that a Miata does not, in fact, look like a bathtub on wheels at all, this joke is no longer funny.
I bring the Miata up, though, because the other day I saw a decent looking guy walking out to a parking lot, and I saw him get into a HARDTOP white Mazda Miata. Really? You splurged on the designer jeans and the nice haircut and clearly seem to have some self respect, and you decided that the car for you is a white, not even convertible Mazda Miata? Was the sweet teal babe magnet Geo Metro not available?
Don’t give me the “it’s a cheap, affordable car” argument. You could trade it in and get a Ford Taurus and I’d have more respect for you. If you don’t know what that car is, we aren’t the same age, because I think everyone had a friend who had a Mom who drove this car when I was growing up. No, check that: you could honestly ride around town on a razor scooter, and I’d STILL be more okay with that.
And you didn’t even get the convertible? At least then you could let your sweet hair blow in the breeze while you zoomed by the ladies, who are ironically wearing fashion now from when this car was okay (that’s about 1988-1992).
This is the kind of person who, if told that they could trade their car in for ANYTHING in the world, would presumably finally get that PT cruiser of their dreams.
Spam comments on blog posts aren’t fucking around anymore.
So when you get a comment on a blog post, if the computer suspects that it wasn’t written by a human, it stores it in a “this is not a human comment” section that you can review before it posts. I know, sorry. Next I’ll teach you how a keyboard works and what that crrrrAAAZY “mouse” thing does that is attached to your computer!
A few days ago, I received a spam message from reader “Exhibit Develop” that seemed to actually have been written by my personal insecurities. And I kind of respect Exhibit Develop because of it. It reads:
“Great post. It is clear You have a great deal of unused capacity, which you have not turned to your advantage.
The way you write shows you have a need for other people to like and admire you, and yet you tend to be critical of yourself.
It seems to me that while While you have some personal weaknesses you are generally able to compensate for them.”
What I respect about Exhibit Develop is that he doesn’t waste any time getting down to the nitty gritty of what I’m all about. And that he uses the word “while” twice, choosing to only capitalize it once (deeper meaning, Exhibit Develop? I’ll forever be curious). And I don’t know what’s more sad…that a spam bot is wasting it’s time spamming MY blog…or that it pretty much has me down to a science. He also left me a link to a website letting me know how to analyze the grading of diamonds. So there’s that.
In honor of Exhibit Develop, I present:
Rocket Shoes Mixtape 22: A mix of unused capacity that tends to be critical Critical of itself
There is WAY too much good music going on right now, so this guy is about 30 songs deep. Think about it like the Smashing Pumpkins album Millencollie and the Infinite Sadness: it didn’t need that many songs, but the asshole making it couldn’t decide on which to cut out.
Stream the whole thing right here.
As always, you can download the whole shebang in all of it’s mp3 glory right here.
See? I even made bad album art that took me five seconds to create in photoshop using real spam images! Hooray years of work at a production company amounting to the remedial graphic design work of an eight year old!
The Superbowl: The Only Place a Bad Bud Light Costs 3 Million Dollars
The Superbowl blows my mind.
It is the only time when you can spend over three million dollars and not receive a house/a midlife crisis car/anything that should cost three million dollars. Because for about three million dollars, advertisers receive those precious thirty seconds when they can advertise to use the many useful things that we should buy.
Working in advertising, this to me is still fascinating. Having a Superbowl ad used to kind of mean that you, as an agency/production company had made it. At least it meant that you were creating the best work in the industry. Apparently, though, it now means you can draw your name with a bic pencil without using the eraser more than twice and once had an idea about how funny it would be to punch a guy in the nuts. You did? You’re hired as our head creative! The firepit where we throw money in is directly adjacent to your desk!
This year’s ads were at a new level of, “really? REALLY” though. I mean, I seriously think that when my small cousin once pitched me that we should play a game of basketball where only he could shoot and I had to lose was a much stronger pitch than half the people in the industry made to their clients this year. You got three million dollars? BOY do we have an idea for you! Here are my favorites.
The 14,247 ads GoDaddy.com made with Danica Patrick in them.
So I just searched “Go Daddy 2010″, and this is the picture that came up. I did not search “Danica Patrick Naked XXX Hot SexSex PORN BJ CHickSssS”. Seriously, is GoDaddy even trying anymore? Now, I say that and then consider this statement. Trying what? They basically sell “DORKDORKDORK 0110101!!” to people. So that has to be an awkward conversation.
Client: So, how do we sell domain names and URL’s to people as a sexy product?
Agency: Um. We could say that you guys are like…well we can tell people that they can buy URL’s from you. I don’t think most normal people who aren’t the largest dorks on the planet even know what that is, though. Most people watching the game though probably only know how to buy porn on the internet. So maybe we should just go for that.
Client: We are a respectable company. We sell a great product at an affordable price.
Agency: Totally agree. Have you considered soft core porn with absolutely no payoff that involves chicks stripping down into t-shirts?
Client: Are you listening to a word we’re saying?
Agency: No.
Client: SOLD! God you guys are good. Wait, what were we talking about again?
I would think these commercials were good, if they weren’t written by nine year old guys who just figured out how to masturbate. Guys, don’t worry, it gets better. You’ll find out they make movies with full nudity. And it costs WAY less than 3 million dollars.
The Coke ad with a guy Living in a tent. In Africa. Who wants a coke. When he’s tired and can’t sleep. (?)
This one started great. I’m like, “Africa! This is awesome!” And don’t get me wrong, more than half the commercial you’re kind of thinking this is awesome.
And then, this is where this year’s ads just confused me. It’s like they had an idea and then someone was like, “Wait, Bill, this has nothing to do with anything” and he responded, “Yeah! IIII KNOOOOW! But he LOOOVES Coke! Right? I mean, am I right? So like, he just wants a coke!”
What?
When I’m tired and can’t sleep, I drink something not containing “keep me up forever elixir” in it. I know, I know. Just me. But…wait, why does he need to be in Africa for this? Oh, because if he wasn’t then he just woke up, walked over somewhere and got a Coke and we’re all just really confused?
Oh, right.
Google making an advertisement. Just in general.
So a lot of people loved this one. Because it LOOKS like when you search things in google!
So here’s the part I don’t get.
Do they advertise for water? Do they advertise for taking out the trash? Because honestly? I’m pretty sure Google has become the equivalent of this on the internet: you just use it and it works. I don’t really ask questions. I just figure Google is probably where I should go if I want to do “the internet”, just in general. They already won. If someone made an advertisement for walking? Same thing to me. Great advice, I’m totally going to probably do that today. Maybe save those three million bucks on suggesting I do it.
Seriously, Google, you’re in a pretty good position in the market. Considering people call searching for anything “Googling” shit, I’m pretty sure you can hold on to that three mil and maybe buy like, another multicolored golf cart or something. We’re all a huge fan of you. Thanks for letting us know you’re out there, though.
Bud Light making commercials written buy people who eat crayons.
I don’t know who writes these. The funny thing is that they are probably very talented people. But I think they get to the Bud Light client, and realize that they could just suggest to them a guy farting and this would presumably be something that Bud Light would be interested in spending 3 million dollars on.
Client: We’re trying to sell bud light, a poor tasting beer, to the people who already drink it. Any thoughts?
Agency: How about a guy farting. Or like, a guy who calls his friends, but sounds like a rap song that was popular in 2008.
Client: …GO ON…
So out of all the things they could spend some cash on, Bud Light went with: guys talking to each other in T-Pain sounds, a guy who made a house out of bud light cans, people who watch meteors thinking they’re gonna die so they want to party (novel), and how funny it’d be if you drank at a book club but then came up with zero jokes about this and just had a bunch of douchey guys drinking bud light.
Was the creative brainstorm held at Jimmy’s totally rad 15th birthday party or that awesome “Bitches and Ho’s” frat party?
I say this, and then realize I’m complaining about Bud Light targeting their demographic, while also realizing that if it were targeted to me it would probably just be a video of guys crying and complaining. Awkward.
Nevermind. You win, Bud Light.
The irony of all this is that my favorite commercial of all was the one where the Beaver’s were playing fiddles, and I kind of liked the one where people were like human dolphins.
Oh, irony. You’re a funny guy. I wish you’d stop sleeping on my couch.
An Open Letter To SF Muni
Dear SF Muni,
Fuck you.
Let me start over.
Fuck you.
You are the public transportation system. Say that out loud. You are, supposedly, the way I should transport myself. You know, to places like “everywhere” and “anywhere”. So let me just say I’m a little bit confused.
I like to think of you like someone I’m dating (I know, a truly novel and original metaphor for me). And a few months ago, you basically told me you were exhausted. A lot of people were complaining about you, and you felt like you needed a little space. Just a little more time to yourself, because we’d been hanging out too often. I was frustrated when you said this, but I’m a good boyfriend, so I listened. I was like, “Hey, sure, if that’s what’s going to make this work a little better, you change your routes up. I’m even cool if you come by less often than you used to…if that’s what you need…” When you told me you needed a little more money to cover the rent…I figured it was cool. You weren’t a deadbeat significant other, and when times got better you’d pay me back.
I’m done with your lies.
You show up late. When you do show up, you’re a total asshole. Your driver acts like it’s a serious inconvenience that I’ve burdened him with the “driving people around in a bus” part of his “driving people around in a bus” part of his job. I mean, I wouldn’t take a job at the ice cream store and sigh when people asked for a goddamn sugar cone. Also, I would like to figure out where you are training your drivers. Have they used brakes on a bicycle before? Same theory. Just ease up a bit. If you push it lightly, the brakes are going to work. There’s no need to play the “can I catapult Drew into the awkward guy who’s mouth breathing in sweat pants” game. That was fun when you were on time. Hell, at the beginning of the relationship? It was one of those weird reasons I liked you: it was kind of cute in some effed up way.
It now costs me two dollars to be late to everything. Which seems like a really shitty deal. When did you become the cable guy, telling me vaguely that you’d be over at my place sometime between the morning and roughly any time ever, including never? This is not a schedule, unless you are smoking weed all day and you totally got caught up in that Man vs. Wild episode wear Bear got stuck in a swamp and ate a fish while it was still alive (which, I’ll agree with you, was fascinating, you’re totally right).
My favorite is when you’re late and act like I’m the asshole. Oh, you’re too full? That’s cool, there’s another bus coming within today and when I have my first child. When I do get on, I feel like I’m holding on to the railing for dear life. I get it. You’re angry. We are too.
It used to be endearing. The guy who looked like a meth head wearing one head phone not attached to a portable music device? This was even charming before. But when I’m paying two bucks to sit next to this guy while I’m also late to everything I ever want to do? Not that adorable. Stop being the DMV, who just gave up and decided to be terrible at life from day one.
You are a transportation system. For a major metropolitan city. Put on your big boy pants and start trying a little harder. Thanks.
Love,
Drew. And presumably anyone else who lives in the city of San Francisco.
p.s. The sex was never that good, anyway. I never thought I’d say this, but BART is better in bed.
Booooo. BOOOOOOO.
Male Pattern Baldness Is The New Menopause
I am neurotic.
In the words of the great Kevin Bacon, these are the facts, and they cannot be disputed. Sometimes, it concerns me that my thought process resembles that of an older Jewish woman when I’m…male, and 27. But it’s how I live, and I can’t stop it. Something happened about two weeks ago, though. It was not a neurotic moment. It was a moment of truth. And it was horrific.
I was at the “too expensive jeans store” buying a pair of jeans. Seeing as I spend an inordinate amount of time on a female exercise machine these days, it turns out the only positive that could come out of such an activity occurred: I lost weight and my pants don’t fit anymore. Total win, right? Fucking wrong.
So I go to buy some new pants, and I’m feeling good. I go as far as to ask the lady if she can help me pick out a pair, mainly because she’s an attractive hipster, but more because guys have some jaded vision in their head that EVERY girl at the clothing store is totally into you and is just waiting for you to talk to them! Turns out it’s not flirting, and it’s this thing they have called “their job” and it’s in sales. Who knew.
As I go into the dressing room to try them on, I am checking to see the fit. Apparently, dressing rooms were also made by creepy sexual guys who just have mirrors everywhere, so you can legitimately see yourself from every angle. As I’m checking myself out…I catch a glimpse of something that I can only describe as the worst moment in my entire life: I have an extremely thinning hair patch on the back of my head.
I fell apart. But this wasn’t neurotic, I was not seeing things: I’m going bald. Now, it’s safe to say I won’t be at a defcon-5 level of bald for a while. But oh, is it there. And while a few red flags should have been “every time I get out of the shower my hair is not on my head anymore,” and “I can see a lot of my forehead these days,” I simply refused to truly come to terms with it. But it’s there. And I now have no choice but to accept my fate.
Girls can’t understand this. And don’t when you bring it up. They tell you it doesn’t matter. That they don’t care about that kind of stuff. Just be a nice guy! Yeah, that’s working out. No. It matters. And if girls had a choice between the guy at the bar with hair and the guy with “not hair”, first choice is probably the former. That’s like guys saying that they just want a girl with a great personality…ding ding ding, they are lying!
So I’ve been in a panic. Because you really have two options when this happens.
The first path is non-acceptance. This is about 98.9% of all men. You get rogaine. You know, a magical foam you put on the back of your head. You know how I know this doesn’t work? Because I also don’t believe unicorns are real. If someone had cured balding by now, OR seen a real life unicorn, I’m pretty sure they’d be advertising a teeeeny bit harder. Even better, you can get a pill called Propecia. Let me go over this one with you, starting with the side effects:
“Recognized side effects of finasteride include impotence (um, red flag), abnormal ejaculation (what does that even mean), decreased ejaculatory volume (bummer, but meh, I’m sure most women aren’t that upset about this), abnormal sexual function (ummm…), gynecomastia (I don’t know what that is but it has “gyn” in it and sounds like a disease, and I usually avoid diseases), erectile dysfunction (wait, wasn’t this the first one?), ejaculation disorder (…) and testicular pain (!!!!).”
I’m speechless. Here’s a make believe conversation I believe people have had with their doctors.
Patient: “I’m losing my hair. Can you fix it?”
Doctor: “No problem. We’ll just break your penis and you’ll be good to go.”
Patient: “No, no, I said I’m losing my hair. On my head.”
Doctor: “No, I know. But it’s okay. We came up with a solution! You’ll grow hair back, but you’ll just never have sex again.”
Patient: “That seems…like a poor life decision.”
Doctor: “Well the good news is people also report having it not work all the time in the ‘growing hair back’ department, so at least you’ll now have a small chance at not even getting hair back AND no penis!”
Patient: “Nevermind. My foot hurts. Can I have some vicodin?”
I just don’t understand the logic. A fear of balding is that you will become sexually less desirable to women. Why on EARTH would I take a pill that makes my penis not work? So I can grow hair back, woo a woman back to my bed and then ask her if she just wants to comb my hair for a bit? Because I’m physically incapable of having sex? That’s okay, I’ll take the loss of hair instead of the lack of penis. Thanks for the offer Pfizer! Mayyyybe work on that. Drug companies blow my mind.
So since I want to at least have a shot at having sex while bald, I’m going to go with the only other road you can go down when you are balding: I’m just going to accept it. I got a few good years left in me, and the good news is I have a gigantic forehead anyways, so I guess I’ve got that going for me. And I think the only answer to this is to just get extremely fit, so girls get drunk and think “well, at least he’s in shape.” It worked for Bruce Willis. And since I figure the film Die Hard is an applicable life model, I’m okay with that.
Men are terrified of losing their hair because it in some way signifies that you’ve gotten old. I’m not old, by any means. But it just means that from here on out, you are officially going to have to try a little harder. It’s hard to come to terms with. But hey. It happens. I had the largest jew fro on the planet growing up, so if anything, it just feels ironic that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. And well, in two years, it’s gone.
In other news, a douche at a bar tried to hit on my best friend’s girlfriend last night, and when rebuked, pointed to my best friend and told the girlfriend that “he’s balding, do you really want a guy like that?” In a moment of genius, I looked at him and said, “This honesty game is fun. Ready for this one? You’re fat.” Fourth grade diss, accomplished. Best part? It stunned him, and he just walked away. Because, well, he was fat. The only insult I have left that I want to actually say to someone before I die is, “Yeah, well you’re ugly.” One down, one to go.
If these are the kind of insults me and my balding friends can look forward to, color me excited. It’s better than being fat, I guess.
So in honor of this, I present:
Rocket Shoes Mixtape 21: Male Pattern Baldness Is The New Menopause
Stream the whole thing at that link up top, or you can download all the mp3’s right here.
I blame my lack of hair on when I wore hats. I also also blame being awkward on...this evidence. Sorry, Adam, for including you in this.
Neurotic Thoughts At The Airport
Who is buying luggage AT the airport? Are people just walking by, see the luggage store, do a double take and go ahead and remove all of their personal belongings from their bag and say “I’ll take the green one! Throw this old one away, as I have nowhere to put it, because…I’m at the airport.” Who is rich enough to do this? Luggage, the last time I checked, is really expensive. So for you to just be all willy nilly, throwing money into a fire pit like this seems like a poor fiscal decision. Does this person also go to the clothing store and say “No, no bag for me. Just burn these old clothes I’m in now. No need for them anymore!” Do they have a hamburger, see the pizza store, throw the hamburger in the trash uneaten and just buy pizza? Stop it.
There is something hilarious about the fashion show/popularity club that an airplane is. If you take a morning or daytime flight, It kind of sucks, because in all reality, an airplane is really just one big bar or nightclub that you can’t leave, right? Sizing people up, wondering where they are going later, etc. It’s just one big pile of judgement in a very small contained area. It’s kind of like going to the DMV. You just look at other people there, and you’ve gotta wonder if maybe you’d have a shot at a good looking woman here. I mean, who else is she gonna go for? You’re the best looking guy at the DMV presumably. Considering most people are dying of “old” or have that problem of “not being a US citizen” that gets in the way of having a relationship with a really attractive girl who only speaks english, you’ve gotta be the best looking guy renewing his registration in that place. I’m all about finding awkward dating in the obscure situations. Airplanes/DMV both fit that bill. Speaking of airplanes being a strange popularity contest of sorts…
Virgin America is such a genius airline. They saw the opportunity for being the “really hot friend” airline that everyone wants to get to know, and her airline friends fucking hate her because everyone is SO goddamn into her. She dresses kind of slutty but then also has this annoying way of being REALLY funny and guys just think she’s the effing best (so she’s not just the slutty girl: she’s got it all…she’s the best of both worlds). She’s low maintenance, loves watching tv and sports and is totally cool with it if you just wanna get drunk all the time. Brilliant. Cheers, Virgin America: you are geniuses and have every right to be making fun of anyone who dares try to get in your way (I’m looking at you, Jet Blue…you’re yesterday’s news, let it go…we’ll be seeing you, I hope only sporadically).
What is with people and lining up to get on the plane to place their bag in the overhead bin. I have never understood this phenomenon. People would honestly sacrifice their children to get on that plane before you, if it means their bag got up top without them having to have some crazy person panic attack. Here’s the thing. THEY WILL FIND A PLACE FOR YOUR BAG. You know why? Because it’s their fucking job. Honestly, test it out. Wait until the last possible minute to get on a plane. Walk on, and say “I can’t find a spot for my bag.” They will take the bag, tell you to sit down, and move crap around until your bag is near you. In a moment of irony, they will also be an asshole to the guy whose carry on was too big (who was probably the ass trying to get on the plane aggressively early and who made sure it was before you) and will then be extra nice to you because he was such a pain in the ass that you now look like a saint. I don’t understand people. You have an assigned seat…you are about to go sit in a really uncomfortable position for a prolonged period of time…why are you RUSHING to get to this situation? Relax. Your bag will make it. You will make it. You’re stressing the rest of us out. Read the goddamn Skymall or check to see what dated film is presumably only playing on the flight to an obscure island region of the pacific that you are not familiar with. The movie stars Adrian Brody. It’s really bad. Don’t worry, you’re better off.
I will never, ever understand why everything at the airport is not priced out to be a round number that does not force me to receive billions and billions of metal coins back. I have done everything humanly possible in my airport preparation to not have a lot of items in my pocket that would set off a metal detector, or more importantly…that I would have to remove in every city when I got to a security checkpoint. Stop it. Just make the sandwich $9.00 instead of $8.37. I really don’t want three pennies, five dimes and two nickels (they also never give you quarters…they’re like a fat kid with a coin collection who won’t share the good ones). I’m willing just to give you a little extra money to not have loose change. Sometimes I feel like going to the airport is like the game mousetrap: it was just impossible to set up and took like an hour of your time JUST to get it ready to play, and then that shit was impossible to win.
On that note, a man just ate an entire box of chewy chips ahoy next to me while waiting for the plane. He did it in an astonishing 30 minutes. Not only do I not want to sit next to this man on the plane…I’m also dumbfounded and incredibly impressed.
I’m off to steal the Skymall magazine, which for some reason always seems like a big win to me.
(*Writer’s Post Flight Note: Virgin America doesn’t have skymall. We’ve found your achilles, Virgin. Let this be the only pockmark…)
Swimsuits Are Already Underpants
Valet Parking My Car In A Dirty Parking Garage = Missing The Point
Since I apparently have a deathwish, I went to go shopping in Union Square in SF last Saturday. Seeing as I live about six blocks from said place, I also thought it’d be genius to drive there (I just didn’t feel like getting punched by a bum on the 19 that day, which actually occurred once. Okay, pushed aggressively). As I circled the parking garage to find a spot, I became rather confused that everything was roped off and unavailable. When I got to the top, I was greeted by four cheery men…who informed me that they’d be glad to valet my car for free. A few things on this:
1) Seriously? They offer valet parking in a crappy downtown garage? So you want to charge me not only to place my vehicle in a rectangle for about 48 minutes, but you also then want to charge me so that you can drive my vehicle TO the rectangle? Oh, what’s that? You offer no guarantees that I will leave with everything that was in my car when I got here? Way to be accountable! No, this seems totally fair. Also, bums live in here, piss all over the place, and may feel like stabbing me if I turn a corner wrong. I would DEFINITELY pay double for this opportunity. No, no disconnect there at all: this reeks of classy. Valet away.
2) Don’t tell me that the valet service is free. That’s like a guy telling a girl at a bar that they should just go back to his place, and then when she says no because she knows that he then expects her to put out later, him telling her that they can just cuddle. They are lying. I don’t believe that I don’t have to pay you, valet man. Stop saying we can just cuddle and then asking me for five bucks later.
3) Fuck real estate, this is the best investment on the planet right now. I should just start buying parking spots in random places and charging people…boom. Billionaire. $3.50 to enter the lot? Totally fair. I’m going to start randomly walking up to people on the street and talking to them, and when they try to leave the conversation I’m going to say “Time not paid. That was $3.50 in conversation.” Oh, you didn’t even enjoy the conversation and wanted to just see if there was someone else more enjoyable to talk to? Nope. You’re fucked. $3.50. Die, Parking Garage owners.
Brunch Is A Blatant Excuse For Alcoholism
I love how brunch is an excuse for blatant alcoholism. By writing this, I’ve now just lowered my chances of getting laid by about 1000% (which docks me to about a -9004% chance) because every girl on the planet loves brunch and it’s all they ever want to do. Brunch is considered not only luxurious, but also a totally socially acceptable way to drink before noon. You’re not hitting the bottle WAY too early. Nope. put a strawberry in any alcohol and order a fancy form of french toast that has some whipped marscapone on it (when do you ever eat marscapone? ) and all of the sudden you’re classy. This strikes me as odd. This is what I don’t get about fancy brunch: why is it that I should want very small portions and just a little bit of alcohol to cure the fact that I drank too much alcohol the night before? Shouldn’t I want lots of food and, if we’re going for it, a lot of alcohol so I can just be drunk again?
If your grandpa did this (this being going to brunch, apparently, which…apparently I don’t think old people can do?), wouldn’t everyone say “Oh man. Grandpa Albert is an alky. That dude just drinks like, all the time”? I’m pretty sure if a family member was just pounding booze on Tuesday at 10am, I’d be a tad concerned.
I’m going to just start showing up to work with a bud light in a glass with a strawberry in it. When people ask me if everything’s okay, I’m just going to say, “Of course it is! We’re at brunch!” Take that, alcoholism. I win again.
Swimsuits Are Already Underpants
People who wear underpants underneath their board shorts confuse me. Swimsuits are already underpants. Do you wear underpants beneath your underpants when you wake up and go to work? Do you wear a pair of jeans underneath your suit before you go to work? That seems silly, right? When you are going into a body of water, and you decide to put on a swimsuit, take a gamble and maybe take your underpants off and just wear the swimsuit. That’s the point of the swimsuit: so that you aren’t wearing your regular clothes underwater. Knock it off, Tobias Fünke. You look ridiculous.
Rocket Shoes Mixtape 20: Songs That Don’t Wear Underpants Underneath Their Underpants
Listen to the whole shebang at the link up there, or you can download all of the mp3’s right here.
This is exactly the type of guy that I expect to wear underpants under his underpants
A Beginner’s Guide To Going Back To The Gym
So I started this thing about a month and a half ago called “exercise”. It’s nuts, you just go and run on things and every now and then lift some stuff, and it turns out then you don’t feel like shit all the time. While the bottle of wine and wheel of brie cheese was really working out for me with the ladies, I figured maybe I should try a little harder (hey, brie…I miss you. Don’t worry, I’ll drunk dial you one of these nights and ask if you want to just hook up without feelings…say yes…). So here’s the thing though, and I think most of you will agree with me: the gym, especially when you haven’t been for a while (cough cough 2-4 YEARS cough cough), is like a club you aren’t a part of and you need a manual to even go about your business without pissing someone off or learning how to even (GASP) enjoy it. Since I’m a pro now after a whopping 1/12 of a year in attendance, I thought I’d break it down for you, so you won’t have to be as scared as I was.
The gym is a great place to pick up women.
So I kept wondering why all the hot girls weren’t in the “I’m depressed” section of the grocery store I was in (re: wheel of cheese section). Turns out they are at the gym because they exercise, and that’s why they are good looking. So the fact that you are even there trying? You just beat out half the male population in the “I would sleep with that guy” category. Do I have statistical evidence to back this up, even empirical evidence of my own? No. No I do not. But assuming is a great way to go about things. That’s why everyone likes wikipedia: I’d rather just assume everything everyone ever says is probably true because I don’t have any knowledge pertaining to said subject myself. Just go with it. And hey, that’s why the internet is great: if someone says something, it just got logged into google, and now you’ll search for it, and now because it is on the internet, it’s true. Welcome to the internet!
Bottom line: there are just a lot of good looking women at the gym. And I go to a gym that resembles a prison in Indiana, so I can’t even imagine what those “people with money” gyms are like. Just smile and run. Odds are you just beat out that girl’s boyfriend who’s home smoking pot right now in the “possible future mate” category.
(editor’s side note: feel free to smoke pot when you get home. They have no idea that you’re the “I go to the gym to substantiate my horrible habits” guy, and she won’t figure that out for like, MONTHS)
The gym is a horrible place to pick up women.
Guys go to the gym because they think they’ll get jacked after pushing two levers on a machine with a weight on it, girls will in turn see this, and will automatically sleep with them after he creepily stares at them while they run on a treadmill. Girls are at the gym for a few reasons: either they are in a horrible relationship with a guy and he only likes her when she’s fit, she wants to look better than her other friends so she’s not “that” friend that other girls hang out with to look better themselves, or she is getting good looking to hook up with some guy who she has a gigantic thing for (hint: his name isn’t “you”). They think most guys at their gym just smell bad and that’s about it. She’s not interested in you. Let down, I know.
The meatheads are the nicest guys at the gym.
You know that guy with like, a strap around his arm tied to an unidentified old milk gallon that has the label torn off and is now filled with an odd fizzy orange drink that is probably steroids or something GNC sells called “MUSCLE EATER” or “ADFDSLKJ KILL PEOPLE WHEN YOU DRINK THIS WITH YOUR MUSCLES!”? Turns out he’s actually a big old teddy bear and is the most polite guy in the room. Don’t be afraid of him, just think of him like a bear in the wild: you’re on his turf, and he won’t fuck with you if you don’t fuck with him. In fact, if you ask him questions or let him go ahead of you? He’ll probably smile and turn out to be a really nice guy. That metaphor in some ways doesn’t work, because I think if you say, “hey bear, this is your forest, just go ahead!” it eats you or mames you anyways. Again, I have no evidence of this, I’ve just watched a lot of cartoons and shows on the discovery channel where a guy thinks he’s cool with bears, and it turns out he’s not and they eat him. Go figure, the grizzly bear didn’t want to hang out and high five.
There is always someone fatter than you, take solace in that.
That first time you go back to the gym is horrific. You are out of shape, you look confused…it’s like having sex for the first time: you’re just flailing around and hoping no one calls you out on the fact that you have no idea what you are doing. But here’s the thing: there is always someone who looks worse than you and is trying EVEN less than you are. Feels good, right? Use that. And don’t tell me you feel bad using someone else’s shortcomings to make yourself feel better. You’re fibbing. Embrace it and judge away. You look okay. At least better than that guy.
Bring a towel. And wipe down your fucking machine.
Gyms apparently can’t afford air conditioning. So when you run really fast and lift heavy things that in turn make you accidentally make weird noises, you sweat. If you are like me and apparently have a gland problem, this happens a lot. When you are done with your machine, someone will want to use that machine, and they probably don’t want to see what it’s like to rub their hands all over what you have left behind. Think about it like this: you just had sex in a bed, and you just walked away and said, “hey I’m all done here, bed’s all yours!” See? That’s fucking nasty. Just wipe the goddamn machine down.
Only fat people go in the hot tub or the sauna.
This has got to be like some unwritten rule, but it stands up no matter what gym I’ve ever been to: only fat people go in the hot tub or the sauna. You know when you were joining the gym, and you thought, “oh great! a spa and a sauna..I bet we all just sit in there and it’s like spring break, because i’ll be fit with other fit people in there!” NO. This is not true. You know who’s in there? The huge hairy guy, and that woman in a one piece who looks like she may have been in there since that morning. They are mouth breathers, they creepily just go back and forth from side to side, and you’ll feel like you’re in the intro to a creepy porn. Do not, in any situation, go into either of these. It’s not like spring break where it’s a bunch of drunk girls who are just waiting for ANYONE who can make even a half hearted joke to sleep with…it’s gross people who you’d be scared of in a dark alley. This will never change. Give up on that hope.
That guy farted next to you.
Yes, that just happened. People have bodily functions, and can’t seem to control them in a gym. It’s not going to smell good. So just accept that yes, that guy next to you just farted, and breath out of your mouth for a while. I’m sorry. Also, it could be “that girl”. Sad truth #8,482 of the world that guys refuse to believe: girl’s fart. Probably just as much as you do. Sorry. They have to poop sometimes, too. I know they are attractive and smell like delicious most of the time, but she probably has to fart sometimes too.
Yes, that guy is using the hand dryer to dry off his junk in the locker room.
Saw this about a month ago. You are going to see some weird things in the locker room. If I were you, I’d just never shower at the gym and try to get in and out of the locker room as fast as humanly possible. You will see things that your eyes will never be able to take back. Hair. Weird towel routines. Just…a lot of “no”. Shower at home. You’re not homeless, so don’t act like the shower at the gym is FINALLY going to be the thing that gets you to work out during your lunch break. It won’t. Who honestly wants to bathe in a place that you have to wear footwear in, so as to NOT catch a disease? Is this not a red flag for a bathing facility?
Use that machine that makes you look…kind of not heterosexual.
So you know how frat guys and bro’s are always all about “rippin their bi’s and tri’s and tearing up their back”? That’s cool, and I applaud them. The type of girl you want probably doesn’t want the guy who looks like he might have Chris Brown tendencies if you use the last of the milk, though. Here’s a fact (blanket statement alert): you know who usually look REALLY good and REALLY fit? Gay guys. Because they actually give a shit what they look like. This is in turn why so many girls just want to “go to a gay dance club and DANCE, girl!” So whatever machine that attractive gay dude is using at the gym? Use it. It’s working.
(editor’s note #2: this is a self serving paragraph as I’m worried I’m judged every time I step on the stair master. PEOPLE ON THOSE THINGS LOOK REALLY GOOD. I’M OKAY WITH IT.)
Don’t do yoga at 24 Hour Fitness.
There is a reason there are places people do yoga and only yoga: because at the “yoga” store, they know how to do yoga. Like, really well. It’d be like if McDonald’s tried to start selling you car stereo’s: it’d just be awkward, and you kind of just went there for the mcnuggets. If you are doing yoga at the gym, you should worry about the fact that you’re going to stop going to the gym in about…wait you already stopped going. Just run. It’s a fucking gym, not a pilates studio.
And lastly…
Don’t be the guy who’s creeping everyone out while air drumming and singing lyrics to the song on your iPod.
Sorry. I just really like that song.
Hall and Totes
So we all know the great cover bands out there (I say great loosely, as a cover band is either phenomenal…or an utter disaster). ACDShe, El Vez (oh, you clever Mexican Elvis, you!), Minikiss (picture of, you guessed it, a midget kiss band, here), Mandonna (I don’t want to even find that picture to link to)…and the world renowned SF 80’s cover band “we should go to that show and make out with blacked out sorority girls!” Pop Rocks (sure, I make fun, but they are really good).
I have an idea for the next brilliant cover band:
Hall and Totes.
All Hall and Oates, all the time. Seriously, who’s coming with me? Seeing as I can roughly sing their entire songbook, you wouldn’t have to do much. I’m fine with it being the other way around, too, if you want to handle the golden pipes. Theoretically, though, I need an Oates. It’s a low risk/high reward situation for you. What this means is that you will grow a mustache and perm your hair. This is only necessary because I can’t grow a thick mustache or much facial hair at all in any way. In return? I’m giving you a shot to take the stage with me in a band that may or may not take the world by storm. I’m assuming the latter.
Here is a gallery of prospective costumes that we can look into. We can practice on rock band first, or we can just get blackout drunk and go to any karaoke bar to see if we have chemistry. If that doesn’t feel right, I’m assuming all we have to do is find a Volvo to drive around in simulating when we were growing up and our parents would probably play a radio station that prominently featured Hall and Oates (for those of you who grew up in the bay area, I assume this would be either K101 or KFOG) If that isn’t what you’re into, I can always just fly solo with the brilliant costume idea below.
Let me know if your kiss should be on my list…if you can make MY dreams come true.
(SEE WHAT I DID THERE? DO YOU SEE THIS POTENTIAL?!?)
I Think Publishers Clearing House Can Do Better Than A Ford Aerostar
I don’t get why ghetto people love to wear Looney Tunes gear.
So, before you start with the thought, “hey Drew, this looks like it may be veering towards racism..” let me qualify this one by saying that I could write an entire blog about weird shit white people do, I would. But hey, guess what? Someone already did. That site could also be called “stuff Drew likes” because I’m pretty sure I’m one huge white stereotype (he says as he blogs). Moving on.
I was on the train down to San Jose this weekend (don’t ask) and I saw this incredibly jacked dude get on the train. He was more fit than I will ever be in my entire life. He’s walking around, staring down people, hat brim all tilted off to the side, walking with that “don’t fuck with me” walk, when I noticed something perplexing: he was wearing a jacket with a gigantic picture on the back…of Tweetie Bird. The best part? It had these tricked out letters that even read, “Tweetie Bird” (but if read out, you’d think it basically said, “YEAH, TWEETIE BIRD, MOTHEFUCKER”). And this is when I just get a little confused.
Why do gangsters l-o-v-e Looney Tunes? I mean, seriously. There is NOTHING hardcore about these characters. And it seems to throw off the whole “I’m hardcore” vibe when you’re wearing a tricked out jacket…with like, sequins on it, and a miniature yellow bird. My favorite was that his pants had a huge decal on them that said “ryde or die, bitch”. Gotcha. Gotta pick one man. Do I have to ride or die? Or do I have to love an adorable yellow bird that looks like it wants to kiss me or perch itself in my cute little pocket all day? My head hurts. Needless to say I said nothing and stared down. Because that’s what awkward white guys do.
Publisher’s Clearing House needs to work on it’s delivery/How is this a real company.
I know it’s everyone’s dream to win millions of dollars. It’d be really fun. You could buy redonculous things like robot dogs or just pay for a guy whose sole job is to high five you randomly throughout the day (I’ve totally thought out my “what would I do with a million dollars/blank check” scenario a lot, and yes, I would hire someone to just high five me). Point being, people with millions of dollars have some money to throw around.
So here’s where I get confused.
I was watching a Publishers Clearing House ad tonight (kind of a red flag of a company name to begin with, no?), and when they get to the big winner’s house, they show up…in a Ford Aerostar. Really? Really. Because if I were a millionaire and I had the option of helicopter/leer jet/ferrari, I’d say “no no no, what’s THAT in the corner…yes…that one. The minivan.” And this is why I just wouldn’t quite believe it when they showed up to my house.
How is this a company at all? Is this not the modern day equivalent of getting an email from a relative in Africa who just needs you to wire him $20,000 dollars because he’s your long lost cousin? If a guy came up to my house in a Ford Aerostar and told me I’d just won a million dollars? I’d lock the door and call 911. Either he’s on meth or he’s about to stab me. Or both. Just my thought process.
Hey, Publishers Clearing House: maybe spring for the hummer or something next time.
A phone that comes with Google is not a feature.
I’m an Apple homer. I won’t lie. But I love that companies are finally trying to best the iPhone (aka everyone in San Francisco’s bestie that they have slumber parties with every night). I got MORE excited when the new phone coming out that would apparently beat up the iPhone was either made by a terminator or was actually sent from the future to destroy me. This was exciting in a lot of ways.
So you know what it turns out the main selling point of these new robot droid “I will kill you” phones is? It comes with Google.
Um, what?
You’re telling me it comes with a search engine? It comes with a line of products that are free and actually come with “the internet”? WOW! You just blew up my mind with a missle. So apparently, in the future, phones are going to come with search engines and email. Phew. I was worried I’d be stuck with the phone that came with phone calls. Thanks, robot phone!
C’mon guys. Try harder. Tell me it shoots lasers. Lie if you have to. Because for me to get rid of the iPhone, which comes with hapiness and “everything works”, you’re going to have to tell me this phone is going to kill me unless I buy it. It seems like an empty threat to tell me that this phone will destroy me with search results and google maps.
On that note: it’s 2010…where the FUCK are the hoverboards? Where are the laser guns? WHY ARE DIPPIN’ DOTS NOT THE ICE CREAM OF THE PRESENT YET??
With that I give you Rocket Shoes Mixtape 19: I Should Have A Hoverboard By Now (preferably one that can fly on water, McFly)
Stream it up top, or download all the mp3’s here for “the free”.
My name is Drew. I live in San Francisco. I just want someone to invent a hoverboard. Until then, I'm gonna rant about everything and make mixtapes. You should hang out. K bye.
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