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.
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.
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…)
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.
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.
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 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??
It’s all about setting goals that are ridiculous. At least for me. Instead of setting some moderate ‘resolution’ for myself, it’s always like, “I WILL LOSE 40 POUNDS, AND WILL NOT QUIT UNTIL I’M EMACIATED AND PEOPLE THINK I NEED HELP!” My dieting skills usually involve “I’ll just eat cereal every meal of the day.” Hey, guess what? That doesn’t work. Because it turns out there’s a reason you were eating hamburgers. Because they taste like ‘delicious’. Turns out shredded wheat tastes like ‘meh’, and after your 9,246th bowl of it, it tastes like ‘not that delicious’. Other goals I have set that have failed in years previous:
- I will not get in a fight with my girlfriend! (no seriously, I think this was in high school. Oh to be young and naive to the fact that dating solely involves fighting, sexual relations and the occasional shared interest. Shhh..I know that was pessimistic)
- I will stop smoking pot entirely! (a little background on this one: I was in college, I was roughly smoking a weed amount that equals “a lot”/”you should be mentally retarded and useless in any conversation with another human in daily interactions.” Ambitiously, I was just going to wake up and stop? Hilarious. I made it two days. Then I watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and ate an entire jumbo box of Mac and Cheese. You win, Kraft. You Win.)
- I will stop lying, just in general, ever. (Which, ironically becomes a lie when you lie about something. See how I did that? I know, you’re amazed at my use of clever wit. This is also impossible because lying is great fun from time to time. Like when I tell the DMV that I am of Asian decent, just to see if they are paying attention)
Point being, I’ve decided this year to scale it back a bit and go for the baby step format of resolutions. I figure, if I set the bar ridiculously low, I will inevitably want to high five myself by years end. So here’s where I’m at for 2010 life goals.
I will listen to Hall and Oates a lot.
I am close to even declaring this the year of Hall and Oates. No, i’m serious, try to not enjoy them upon letting them back into your life. For starters, Hall clearly does most of the leg work in the band, while Oates just kind of stares with a perm in the background of every video. Incredible, has anyone ever gotten THIS hardcore of a free ride before? I commend you, John Oates. Secondly, their music is 100% good, every time. I don’t get it. They also have a knack for singing about some seriously creepy shit without being called out on it, at all. “Private eyes, are watching you” … “Your kiss is on my list” (common female reaction to either of these should be: what list? you’re watching me? stop, that’s gross.) Private eyes is prominently featured on 2010’s opening mixtape due to my current man-crush.
I will read a book.
You ever been talking to a girl, and she says, “so what’s your favorite book you’ve read lately?” and some other guy says, “oh I just recently enjoyed finishing up Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, it was interesting..” and you say “I just watched Back to The Future Part 2!”? Yeah, how’d that go? Turns out not so well in my experience. Here’s something I’ve learned: girls love to read. Wait, check that: normal people love to read. You know why? Because it makes you less dumb. And I just don’t seem to do it very much. I don’t think reading sports journalism counts. And I’m positive Us Weekly doesn’t. So i’m going to set the lofty goal of at least one book this year. Again: I’m looking for an extremely low ask of myself in my resolutions. I think one book is doable. And I will automatically say that Dan Brown doesn’t count, because I may as well just watch a movie with Nic Cage in it and wonder if he has discovered that he, in fact, does not have hair.
I will learn to accept the banana as a food that I should eat.
Inexplicably, I do not eat bananas. Turns out they are really good for you. You know how people try to aggressively change their whole diet? Turns out I like food. So instead of making an outlandish claim that I will only eat acai berries or some weird shit like that, I’m opting for the “I will eat bananas” theory. I love the word banana in general, and feel like it’s some guy that hangs out with my friends that I always say I don’t like and when everyone says, “why don’t you like banana? that guy is awesome!” I just don’t have a reason why. So hey, banana, i’m sorry for being a dick. You can be in my smoothies now, I’ll stop substituting you.
I will not be fat.
This one is my favorite, and here’s why. Every year, almost every human being on the planet goes with the resolution that they will lose some aggressive amount of weight. Or that they are going to get washboard abs (hey guess what? that’s really hard, and if you have a job and/or friends you like hanging out with, you just ran out of the time it takes to attain these). So here’s my theory: i’m just not going to ever be fat. I don’t have to look like Brad Pitt (I know, I know, but we already look so much alike…). I don’t have to eat only 12 calories a day. I will just not be fat. That’s it. If i’m ever getting fat? I’ll just stop, because fat is a shitty best friend that always sucks at life. Really, guys, that’s kind of all that matters. If you have a half of a personality? Most people will just be excited that you aren’t fat and sleep with you. I know. This knowledge bomb is pretty much blowing up your mind right now. Feel free to join me. The water is fine, and there is plenty of room in the pool.
On that note, this is a mix that I made for the new year that was so goddamn ambitious, it took up two “not real” cd’s. Basically, I just got too excited so I made it two mixes. Hall and Oates is on there, so you’re already halfway to awesome just by listening. Happy new year everyone.
Rocket Shoes Mixtape 18: Let’s Make Outlandish and Unachievable New Years Goals That We Will Inevitably Fail At!
Seeing as it’s Sunday and my life sometimes resembles a 40 year old Soccer Mom (sans the children, mini-van or “I’ve got my life figured out and together” part), I took a trip to everyone’s favorite “it’s so sad that I find this to be an outing” store, Bed Bath and Beyond. Whether you admit it or not, everyone goes here every now and again and it’s kind of like Costco: you go to buy the most obscure shit on the planet and leave with 14 things you in no way needed. You know how ridiculous a Costco trip is…you go to buy 20 pairs of socks, a lifetime supply of cheez-it’s (just me? just me) and of course, booze in “I’m an alcoholic” portions. Bed Bath and Beyond is fairly similar. You go to buy a wok and some towels (which is ridiculous enough to begin with) and leave with a new shower head, two oscillating fans and a candle (again, crickets…judge, I bought a candle. Screw you). And I always kind of loved that about the place: they come at you from ninety different angles and it’s almost like you just submit. It’s as though the store is an 8 year old you’re babysitting and just do whatever it tells you because you don’t want to hurt it’s feelings. If it wants to play “everyone’s a robot”, you play “everyone’s a robot.” Today’s trip, however, bothered me.
The triple B is out of control. Where it used to be kind of funny that they had weird trinkets and doo-dads, it’s just getting weird now. It’s like the store is on an episode of hoarders (if you haven’t watched this show, don’t: it’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever viewed). Apparently, the buyers at Bed Bath and Beyond cannot say no to any vendors anymore.
Bed Bath and Beyond: “Okay, could you send us some down comforters, some pillows, um…let’s see, some towels..”
Vendor: “Great. How about some army men, every product that is marketed ‘As Seen on TV’ and two walkie talkies?”
Bed Bath and Beyond: “Um, we really don’t need that. We’re just kind of a domestic store, so..”
Vendor: “Trust us, people are gonna LOVE this shit. And you are marketed as “Beyond”, so why not get a little risky? We’ll send you a robot dog toy as well.”
Bed Bath and Beyond: “Okay. Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll just put that stuff next to the bedding, because that seems logical.”
I don’t even think I’m exaggerating this fake phone call, either. Here are some items I saw on my way to buying a pillow top for my mattress today.
USB Mp3 Turntable: Obviously, this will come in handy when you want to spin crazy tunes with your new…pots and pans. Apparently, Bed Bath and Beyond presumes you are either a drug addict raver or a 13 year old teenage male. Either are logical, as you came here to buy towels. (?)
12-In-1 Wooden Game Set: Again, they are getting a little liberal with the ‘beyond’ part here, no? I just don’t see the connect with “I came here to buy bedding” and “I want to play checkers!”. So confused.
Fake Walkie Talkies: This was maybe my favorite. Because they weren’t even real. They just figure if you are decorating your home, maybe you’ll also want to be treated like a four year old and be given a fake walkie talkie to keep you busy so Mom and Dad can finally get some time to relax. This was located next to the shower heads. Seriously.
Roller Skates: …no, seriously. Roller skates. Now if I’m ever just sitting around wondering where I can finally purchase that set of 1970’s roller skates that I’ve always wanted, I’ll know where to go. To the bedding store.
A USED bottle of hand soap: Apparently Bed Bath and Beyond thinks “Beyond” means “You’re a hobo/You’re THAT poor.” Don’t believe me? You should.
Trying to navigate your shopping cart around the place is awkward now. They can barely fit in the aisles because there is so much useless shit there. Are they honestly turning a profit? You’re telling me they don’t end the day and think, “Welp, maybe we shouldn’t order any more pairs of roller skates, they just aren’t moving like we thought they would.”
Sure, I’m the asshole. Because at the end of the day? I spent my Sunday afternoon going to a store named Bed Bath and Beyond. I just think someone needs to tell them to maybe calm down with their liberal use of “Beyond.” It’s a bit much now.
I just wanted a fucking towel.
On that note, seeing as it’s Chanuka and the Jew in me is into the eight crazy nights spirit, I couldn’t sit on my hands for another minute apparently and went ahead and made another mix. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the terrifying experience I had at this store today.
I was sending my friend Patrick a text this morning to find out where we were meeting for our morning coffee date (ADORABLE), and apparently I accidentally emailed him. Now, if you are one of the “everyone” who has a phone that sends email, AND you work in a funny haha industry, you’ll know that it’s almost custom to have a funny email signature. My friend, for instance, has one that says “Sent from my mini robot.” Another person I know has one that says “Sent from my pocket”, which actually always just kind of creeps me out. Anyways, mine says “Sent from the future” because I think that’s hilarious and have no idea why.
When he got to coffee he asked me about why I had sent him this message from the future. I laughed, and then he got very serious and asked that if I had really been in the future, wouldn’t I have known where to meet him for coffee? GET IT? We’re hilarious. But wait, we are. So I started thinking about it, and I thought about how cool it would be if there was such a thing as “Future Text Messaging” and then in turn I thought about all the hilllARRRRious things one would say with such a technology. I then wasted a part of my morning writing them out during a meeting. Because this is what I do with my time. So this is what I would text people from the future text messaging service, with a rationale as to why I would in each situation with each imaginary person. I promise I talk to people in real life and am not a homeless person who thinks of stuff like this when he talks to no one. Ever. Am I talking? Here they are.
“HA HA HA!”
Oh, I was just anticipating you’d be having a conversation with people and no one would laugh at your joke, and I’d want to make you feel good, so I wrote you to say, “HA HA HA!” to let you know that I laughed approximately three times, and it is in capitals as though to say that it was, in fact, a hearty chuckle.
“That coffee is too hot.”
In the future, I will know that the coffee you were about to drink is too hot. Please do not drink it, or at least give it a minute or two. Or do that thing where you blow on it, as though this will do anything to cool the scalding hot beverage down because you have magical ice breath.
“Don’t eat the pizza.”
This is to me about when I have the choice between pizza and not pizza. I will inevitably avoid this future text, and future me is pissed even writing this. Do I ever listen? Why does future me even bother.
“I love you”
This was anticipating you’d be totally into me by now. As you have zero interest in me as of yet, I thought i’d just throw this out there just in case things turned around. If this is the future where you aren’t in love with me, sorry, this was a creepy future message.
“Look out!”
Self explanatory. You probably got this though and already got hit by whatever it is that was biking by or whatever, so you’re probably on the ground and thinking, man I wish someone would write me a message from the future to say “hey, look out, maybe to your right to be exact.” I’ll be future faster next time.
“Do we have to talk about this now?”
Because in the future, whatever the problem is, I probably want to know if we really have to talk about this right now because I’m busy doing other stuff and/or I just don’t really want to have this conversation. Just a given.
“I’m sorry you have VD.”
This is a really mean one, because I probably could have told you not to hook up with that girl at the bar and/or I could have reiterated the fact that I’d really like you to maybe use protection if you do so. Sorry, I was future drunk and forgot to tell you. I can’t always be future perfect.
“I know, can you believe that’s how they ended that shit after all of that?”
This is the message I send you from the future when the final episode of Lost airs and we’re all inevitably pissed at however they end it. Future “Fill In Your Own Name Here” will probably write this message, too, to many other people.
“Don’t ever act again.”
This is to Elizabeth Berkeley immediately after she says the “I’m so exciiited, I’m sooo…scaaaared!” line in that episode of Saved By The Bell. That is the best line you will ever have in your career, Elizabeth, and you should just stop right now. Showgirls is not a good career move, no matter what they tell you.
“Maybe don’t do that.”
This is to Tiger Woods. About anything he will ever do, ever.
“I can’t believe we finally met and you’re in love with me, yes I’ll make out with you!”
This is the future message I send to Anne Hathaway. We’re future laughing about how silly it is now, because we future can’t believe that we didn’t know each other when I wrote this post!
I’ll end right there, because that’s as creepy as I can get. I think.
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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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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