So here’s the thing: Lindsay Lohan is crazy. Batshit crazy. You know how I know this? Because we all know a crazy girl. Maybe you’ve dated one (it’s been years, but oh the memories), maybe she’s your sister, maybe you ARE the crazy girl and you kiiiinda know it but don’t like to admit it but your friends say this about you. Bottom line: everyone knows that girl, and Lindsay is certainly it right now (like how I called her Lindsay like we’re besties? I do). I also kind of find this to be unfair and feel bad (if that’s possible) for her. It’s like telling a fat kid to eat a cupcake and then saying, “Hey, stop being so fat!”: you baited them. And not only that…

Everyone’s got a little crazy in them.

We just don’t go to the Chateau Marmont and act batshit crazy in front of Perez and his asshole friends. You know why? Because we weren’t in The Parent Trap when we were twelve years old (I imdb’d her age and did some awesome math. I’m not THAT creepy). It turns out that pays a little more than the hourly rate at the Homefield Advantage baseball card shop (I got unlimited airheads and jelly bellies. I should have negotiated a bit harder). And you know what you did when you got money in your formative years? That’s right: you bought pot and alcohol. And you did them. And then you passed out in front seats of cars. And then your friends laughed, and you became a lesbia…well ok so you just went a bit apeshit and had too much fun. The kind that got you grounded when you came home and tried to go through the doggie door and your mom woke up (totally hypothetical).

But that’s the thing: you just got in trouble, everyone knew you were just going through “a phase”, and then you grew up and got a job. So take a minute, go through your upbringing and your childhood shenanigans. Ready? Okay. Here’s how that same thing went down for Lindsay Lohan.

It turns out people looked at Lindsay Lohan when she was a kid and said, “Hey! That girl is gonna be cute and already kind of is! She should be in movies.” You know who they said that to? HER BATSHIT CRAZY mom. And her dad who was…oh I don’t know, IN JAIL ALL THE TIME for being a person who does things that make them go to jail (again, re: not your dad). So captain moneyhoarders one and two put her in movies. When she was around sixteen, her mom said, “Hey, Lindsay, don’t worry about school or thinking. Check out this awesome alcohol I found that looks like water! Go drink it and date the guy from That 70′s Show. He looks like a winner!” And then when she got wasted with her friends and came through the doggie door (AGAIN, hypothetically)? Her mom was right behind her because she was coming home from the party, too.

Here’s the fun part: she made a billion katrillion dollars in the process. When I had twenty bucks? I thought it was a killer idea to go buy some keystone light because it tasted really bad and made me want to lunge at girls who were out of my range. Lindsay had enough money to buy nine bars, drink them, and then laugh as one of her twelve cars drove her home. Oh, and her mom was high-fiving her the whole time. If someone told Lindsay Lohan at this point in time that the police were magical unicorns that only emerge when people without money look at other people, she would probably have to believe them. She just didn’t have a normal upbringing.

Fast forward to now, and the girl is a trainwreck. Her career choices were to create a fake tanning line in LA (which I’m pretty sure is like making a line of designer snow or ice cubes in Alaska) and to create a designer line of…leggings. She has dated ninety famous people who also live in hollywood/narnia and her last movie was like a movie about a hooker who’s not a hooker but MAYBE is a hooker because she doesn’t know she killed her. Seriously. Write that down: this is her career. She is playing grown-up, except she is playing it in magical sugar cookie land.

And now, she just had some whirlwind romance with someone. The kind YOU’VE been through. Where everything makes you laugh and you think people’s breath isn’t bad in the morning because they are SO ADORABLE! That kind. And she’s going through this ugly, terrible breakup where everyone, including presumably your grandparents, know about it. That she “totes couldn’t get into the club because Samantha’s family has a restraining order on her.” That she has been twittering cray cray galore about how Samantha sucks. Everyone is watching someone have a REALLY bad breakup, and we’re all talking about it like this is so unheard of and “sad” because she’s pathetic.

If someone watched my breakups and took pictures and documented it? Yikes.

“Michelle breaks up with Drew because he is a goldminer in Nevada with no career ambition.” says US Weekly.

Cover of People Magazine Headline: (Picture of Michelle) “I’m dating a male model, and I’m happy”

“Drew out of control drinking wine on mom’s couch. ENOUGH says family…they are worried he’s rehab bound!”

Drew’s Best Friend Speaks! “He’s just…he doesn’t do anything but cry. Like, a wheezing cry. Oh, and he writes her all these letters. It’s kind of creepy.”

All of that right there? Not one word is fiction (yeah I was a goldminer for a summer. I know, right? ladies, line goes to the right). See? Now I’m batshit crazy. Because my girlfriend and I broke up, and it sucked. That’s it. It’s not that exciting.

But the bottom line is: I had a bad breakup and my family took care of me. When I didn’t get a real job? My family said that Narnia is actually closed now, so I’m gonna have to try to get one of those “real” jobs in San Francisco. They took care of me.

This girl’s family is just sitting there. They are not normal. They are putting out press releases.  No one is saying, “Hey kiddo. Maybe sit this one out and, you know, don’t talk for a while.” They are letting her give interviews to US Weekly. Because THAT’S a healthy outlet.

So if you see Lindsay on the street, say sorry. Tell her that you are probably kind of crazy, too. Maybe not BATshit crazy, but probably a little crazy, too. Because really, we’re all a little crazy. You just don’t have a camera on you when you are drunk texting your ex at 2am or falling asleep on street corners in Menlo Park because you “died”.

(Hey, I got a little crazy in me. What can I say? Lindsay: Call me)

So let me just start by saying that voting today while listening to the song “Mrs. Officer” by Lil’ Wayne made me love my country. I mean…really? I can do that? I don’t know why I found this so fascinatingly odd and cool. But the old lady next to me, who may or may not have been dying IN her mini-booth, looked like she was mortified that I was listening to music on a “future-device” while voting.  Change is a brewin’ ma’am…change is a BREWIN’. Also, thanks for voting, I respect your tenacity, as I’m sure being 900 years old makes it challenging to move/eat food/do anything really, let alone vote. So hey, HIGH five! Unless you voted for proposition 8. Then I hate you. Side note: I found it entirely alarming/hilarious that they quietly threw in Measure K on the SF ballot decriminalizing prostitution, and people are more outspoken and have a larger problem with same-sex marriages. Really? Where is the sign that is for people NOT being hookers? Isn’t this kind of a bigger problem than people who like each other getting married, right-wingers? Anywho.

Moving on from the political diatribe..

So I almost killed everyone in my apartment complex last night. With a duraflame. Let me explain.

It’s chilly in San Francisco right now. You know, cold in a “everyone in California is a big whambulance about weather that isn’t actually cold but yet they bitch about it” kind of way. Nonetheless, I love to complain so I’ll argue that it’s been cold.

So I got home and thought about my options. We have a fireplace at Chateau Ghetto, one of its only perks (well this was considered a perk until last night, when it became a “stupid”). Chateau Ghetto also came with gunfire, people dying outside on Fillmore St. seemingly every 4 minutes, and poor water pressure that in turn makes you feel like you are bathing with a very small squirt gun that is out of water WAY too fast. So obviously, when they said all of this, then told me that it comes with a fireplace, I of course said “WHERE DO I SIGN!” Hey, the last place I lived in SF, my landlord lived in the WALL and was a registered sex offender, so the apartment with the fireplace that came with NOT a registered sex offender seemed like a step in the right direction. Or a marathon in the right direction.

Back to the point: I looked in our lovely little fireplace, which i’ve used not once, and found a duraflame with no paper jacket on it. A naked duraflame, if you will. A sad, lonely, naked duraflame. Looking as though he was cowering in there with a British accent, saying, “please sir, do be kind and put a flame to me!” Yes, this is how I imagined him. So I thought, you know what duraflame? Today is your lucky day. I’m gonna romance the fuck out of myself with a nice fire while I enjoy monday night football. Let’s do this.

Fast forward to the beginning of Drew challenging himself to see how many poor decisions he can make in a row. So to start, I decide to find the nearest magazine and just start basically tearing out pages in it to light underneath the naked lil’ guy. If you are wondering, yes, ink smells great when you burn it (great = poopookaka). At this point, I light them and decide that I’d like some wine, so I’m going to leave the apartment unattended to go to Safeway down the street. I know, right? Who does that? Why didn’t I just turn the stove on full blast and leave it open, and the set of knives on a rope and pulley system that shoot forward when you open the front door? It’s like I was subconsciously trying to make my own Final Destination scene. (wouldn’t it be cool to die that way though? be honest, you’ve thought about it…)

When I get back, it turns out the duraflame is not going up the chimney, but rather into the house. So that’s cool. I decide to point a fan directly at the flame directing the smoke towards the window (which, last time I checked, is how wildfires spread…keeping score yet?), which then just blows smoke all over the apartment. It turns out you can’t just tell the smoke to go out the window, it doesn’t listen. At this point, my roommate gets home and basically just starts cracking up, as it smells like I went camping in the living room. Now here’s the kicker: I decided I wanted to nip this in the bud before it just got smoke in the living room slowly all night, and I wanted to put out the fire. I have gone back through my logic from here on out for a while now, and I’m not sure how I passed any course from the third grade on at this point. I decide (get this) to SOAK A BATH TOWEL and throw it on the fire. In a very small fireplace. What? And go figure…smoke pours into the apartment. So I panic. And in that panic, I decide the next best idea is to open my front door and let it seep out into my building hallway, so that everyone else can enjoy the fun I’m having. Which in turn sets off the building’s fire alarm. Which in turn sounds like a national terror alert siren. Which in turn turns on a strobe light. Which in turn locks the elevators. And calls the fire department. Wow.

I go out to the hallway, and EVERYONE is there staring me down. Kind of like Kevin’s uncle in Home Alone (“looook what you diiiid you litttttle JERK“). And better yet, people are honestly acting like it’s the apocalypse. Dogs and cats in in their travel kennels being run down the hall by terrified owners. So obviously, i’m feeling pretty good about myself. I run down to the street, and phew…THREE fire trucks have come. With twelve firefighters…gearing up like this is the final scene of backdraft or something. People are frantically asking me what happened, and I keep trying to explain that I’m just not that intelligent, but in all honesty I don’t need the national guard in my apartment. Nobody listens, and instead this apparently translates to them that they need giant axes (side note again: why the axe? are you going to stab the fire to death? moving on). The best is when they get to my apartment…charge in to find…a wet towel on a duraflame. Needless to say, they did nothing and just left…basically stating to me that they just prefer that I do kill myself this way rather than help at all, because I have proven myself a weak link in the evolutionary chain.

Just to finish off the story, the smoke of course keeps billowing in because…I didn’t remove the wet towel and just decided to ride it out? Wow…again. At this point, I decide to not have the fire department come again…and go BACK to Safeway…this time procuring 7 boxes of baking soda (it’s all I could think of) to pour all over my fireplace. So basically…

Everyone at Safeway thinks I’m going on some huge bender and presumably getting drunk classy styles with a bottle of pinot noir while cutting MAYBE 9 pounds of Colombian grade cocaine, the fire department and 800 other people hate me, and I can’t make a fire from a DURAFLAME at the age of 26. All in all, I’d say that’s doing pretty well for yourself in one night.

Have I mentioned that it was a duraflame? And that I WASN’T on drugs, which is really sad? The best part of the night, though, was when all was said and done. The roommate and I are sitting there, in awe of my epic tour de retard…and he looks at me and says, “Welp. At least you’ve got something to blog about now.”

Well said, Chris. Well said.

Song of the day is by MGMT. They are everyone’s “hey have you heard of those guys?” band in advertising, and everyone acts like they are cooler than you because they found them first. But I found them before you. Because I’m in advertising. And who really cares…the band is just ridiculously good. Enjoy…this song is addicting. And hey, if you need someone to build you a fire, ladies…

05-kids-1

I am the least athletically inclined athletic person I know. Now…I use the term “athletic” loosely. This means, basically, that I’m not in a wheelchair and could probably run a couple miles if it was forced upon me. Well maybe a mile, and i’d probably complain afterwards. And I can shoot a basketball with horrible form and no spin whatsoever, but it often has a very good chance of going in inexplicably. But anyways. The irony of this statement is that all I ever want to do is watch or talk about sports. Ask me to play football on Sunday? Absolutely not, I’m busy/my foot hurts/my dog died/I have glaucoma. Ask me to watch football on Sunday? Done and done. As long as I don’t PERSONALLY have to play? Of course! I’d love to critique people who are incredibly active and athletic and talk about what they could be doing better! I’ll rattle off ungodly amounts of useless stats about that guy who just came in as the third down back. I’ll even tell you his backup’s backup. I bring this up because of what fantasy sports have done not only in my life, but in the general male population at large. While it has made a bunch of guys who USED to play sports lazy asses, It has also oddly created a level of bromance in the world that is unprecedented. Fantasy football has made softies out of men all across the land. Especially the lazy ones. Like myself.

I’m sick for fantasy sports. And before you start, YES, I am aware of how “lame” they are and how ridiculous it is (and by lame I mean how stupid you are for thinking they are lame. Yes, you). Yes, I select 12 guys to play sports for me so that I don’t have to. I follow them, I get upset when they get hurt because I wouldn’t have rolled MY fucking ankle if I was out there running for us…and I CERTAINLY wouldn’t have shot up that nightclub with my friends, as I would have known the suspension that would have loomed over my head (jax, jax, jax…). I relentlessly follow these guys, so I can make fun of the guy I’m playing that week because he didn’t have MY guys who are playing MY sports for me, and that his played sports worse for him. I know all of these facts. And oddly, I’m okay with them.

So a few years back though, I felt lonely with my team. I don’t know…maybe because they weren’t real people I could talk to and I was yelling aimlessly at a computer screen (which is healthy). Only a shot in the dark there. But on a random whim, my brother and I decided that we would start drafting a team together about three years ago. This way, we could not actually play sports with other people…together. And here’s the best part: it’s been a strange glue that holds us together. Sure, there was plenty of brotherly love before fantasy Dualhorst Hoolhorst was born (not the name of our team, but as of this moment it SHOULD be in contention starting next year). I mean, my brother has always been my best friend. Even when he threw the Joe Montana Sports Talk Football genesis cartridge at my head when we were younger. Which, ironically, was the mode of fake sports I played back then. Wow. But I genuinely look forward to our fantasy sports dorkus drafts. We make huge evenings of them. We bring over notes (no i’m serious, we may as well have a whiteboard we can write on during the draft, we are THAT in denial that this is not a real draft), we have honest discussions about gameplans and how we’d like to focus our strategy this year. Honestly, i’m not quite sure how Adam’s girlfriend takes it so well while not being seriously worried about her long-term boyfriend when him and his brother are chestbumping and high fiving because they “drafted” a “sleeper” in the 9th round of their fantasy draft. Yes, that really happens. But yes…I look forward to these nights every year. And after I leave his place? I’ll probably call him in a few hours to talk about waiver wire pickups we should look into, trades we might want to make…and just generally how awesome we are for how we well we fake drafted our fake team. The funny thing is though…that we genuinely bond over this.

We’ll hang out more often and watch sports together. We’ll end up talking all the time and laughing at how outrageous our psyche’s have gotten, because we are ridiculous and truly hurt when our team loses. We often lament about not playing that tight end last weekend (that’s what she said…had to, sorry), we wonder if the Housh trade was the right move or if we were just trading for a name. We’ll get angry with each other over opinions of who should be starting on our squad that week…I mean, these are all serious issues in my life now. Honestly. But the best part is? Fantasy sports took something ridiculous (which would be, uh, fantasy sports) and found a way to make bromance cool AND totally okay again. You know how in real sports when a guy makes a good play, and his teammate runs up and smacks him on the ass, as if to say, “hey buddy, good job out there”? Fantasy sports has given me the dork equivalent of being able to do this without actually being athletic…or just look like I’m hitting another dude’s ass randomly. Instead, if Adam makes a good pickup? I can gush about it to him. About how smart he is, how proud I am to be a co-owner with him, because he had the foresight that it just wasn’t LT’s week and we should play Julius Jones no matter how ridiculous that looks on paper. I mean, I can honestly bromance it up, and it is in no way gay at all. All because we fake play sports together. Brilliant.

So if something ridiculous can bring my brother and I closer and make us spend more time together? I mean, no matter how loser-ish it is, what’s so wrong with that? On that note, I have to go study up, as we have a fantasy basketball draft tonight. And after that? We’re watching Starship Troopers 3, so we can then pretend that we are fake future soldiers that shoot laser beams at things. Because that’s what brothers should do together: stupid shit they’ve been doing since they were kids. And I think fantasy sports got us back there. And I couldn’t be more excited about it. Unless Anne Hathaway randomly wanted to do me tonight. Then I’d probably tell him fantasy sports are for losers and never call him again.

So it’s been a while since I’ve written. I know…you missed me. I missed you too, sweetheart! It’s like I went out on all these cute dates with people who read the blog, and then just stopped calling one day out of the blue. I mean really cute dates. I got the door for you, we shared desserts, you laughed when I got a bit of it on my nose and we giggled. We both agreed that skinny jeans are ridiculous, and that most people who wear them are trying too hard. And I said, “No I like you…” and you said, “no I like YOU!” and then we did this back and forth for 3 minutes. And then giggled again. And then we awkwardly made out in the car and the seatbelts got in the way, but we laughed because my elbow hit the horn and that guy got scared when he was walking by. Yeah guys, our dates were that cute. You were SURE I was going to meet your parents, and we’d get married and have a million babies (or you would just read my blog and I’d keep writing). But then I was just a huge dick. And I stopped writing…and didn’t even give you an explanation. Ew. Who does that? Well, I took a little “timeout”. I took what we will call a little “depression sabbatical”. Yeah, I made that term up, but it works. You know why? Because breaking up fucking sucks, and all you do is feel sorry for yourself and tell everyone how hard it is and how “they don’t understand.” That’s not obnoxious or anything. Sorry to about 42 people on that one…turns out the world isn’t over and I’m fine now. So instead of writing about this everyday for about a month and some, I thought…uh…maybe i’d just sit this one out until I didn’t hate life. Annnnnnnnd we’re back.

So I shot myself in the foot. When I was living in gross-disgusting-OH-MY-GOD-MY-LIFE-IS-SO-FUCKING-CUTE-land, I decided that I would just broadcast the shit out of it (I say this as I write an entirely self serving blog…). I mean, you’re dating a hot girl. She’s nice. You want to talk about it. It’s like people with babies. They just do things that are obnoxious that only they like, but they think you want to hear about it. You know, they put an oversized hat on a baby, and then say, “oh my god, the baby looks funny because it’s wearing an oversized hat! let’s take a picture and send it to 267 people! I bet they want to see my baby in this hilarious oversized hat!” But you don’t want to see the baby in the oversized hat. You actually think the baby looks weird. Because babies look like aliens. And then it has spit all over its face. And weird crap on it’s nose. And actually, the baby just looks ugly with an oversized hat on. So the moral? I go through a breakup, and realize that the oversized hat pictures are everywhere. And the cute commentary? Everywhere. It’s plastered on facebook walls…myspace comments (which is a dirty mini-mall I refuse to visit anyways, so this breakup was also like breaking up with myspace, so I’ve got that going for me. It’s like finding out I cured myself of crabs or something)…flickr pages. Shit, every nerd avenue on the planet? I was vomiting cuteness on it. I mean, it was fantastic during the grand run of it. But then all of the sudden…you’ve set up an obstacle course of pain for yourself when it ends.

You can’t just breakup anymore. I guess this doesn’t apply to everyone…but I feel like most people have “this” life I just explained on social networks. Before? You call a girl, tell her she sucks and you’re over it, and then you lose her number. And if she went to Menlo? You never really have to see her again because you go to M-A (cough*cough*SHELBY*cough*cough). But now? My GOD man…there’s no escape. You break up. Then you think, “welp…I guess I should hide or erase the nine billion pictures I have on my computer and all my accounts so I don’t cry and eat two whole pizzas everytime they come up and catch me off guard”…but then you have this conflict, because you aren’t REALLY over the breakup for that first week. So you leave them (this is a horrible mistake. don’t do this. run. run for your life away from these things), and then you try to “ignore” them. Which is slang for waiting until you are a bottle of wine deep and decide the best idea right now is to stab your feelings in the face by looking at these pictures. But oh wait it gets better…you’re still “friends” on facebook! So guess what, slugger…facebook will just do the hard work for you and crush your soul whenever it feels like it! Facebook is just that really shitty friend who doesn’t get it:

Facebook: “Hey Drew, did you see that your ex-girlfriend is totally loving life right now? No i’m serious, that’s her status update right now. No, seriously, look! It’s right here! It says “(fill in ex’s name here) is totally loving life right now! Also, who’s that Mark guy that she just became friends with? Yeah whoa, at 1am…sounds pretty…nevermind…Well, I mean, I know who he is…but I guess you probably want to do some sleuth work huh? Well, that makes you creepy. Okay bye for now! I’ll be back in an hour when her new status update says that she’s going out drinking tonight with ‘new’ friends…mysterious right? Hope it’s a date she’s going on! Anyways, later.”

So you do this unspoken thing. For a few weeks, you write YOUR status messages as some elusive “hidden message”. Why? Because you are ridiculous and 12 years old. And you think that EVERYONE cares as much about what you are writing as you do. (Hint: they don’t)

Drew Hoolhorst had a CRAZY night last night…

Drew Hoolhorst is wondering what he was doing at 3am….when he was with tons of chicks. TONS of chicks…last night. (aren’t you wondering what drew was doing at 3am? he’d tell you. you know, if you still wanted to talk. he still loves you…wait nevermind)

Drew Hoolhorst feels fine. No seriously. Really great. He can’t believe HOW much he’s moved on and is totally just like, hooking up with hot chicks left and right again!

Also, make sure to go through the awkward part where you have to no longer “list yourself as in a relationship”. Those emails you get are going to be fun. No, that’s not awkward at all. But you know what? You were the asshole who listed yourself as in a relationship. Yeah, you, Drew. So stop whining about it. The point being…

Breaking up on Facebook is hard to do. It’s awkward, and it makes a normal breakup about nine billion times harder. And I’d say it set me back way more than a breakup would have back in the day. It made me a big fucking Eyore, and it sucked. But it’s over. And one day you DO wake up, and the cliches ARE true. You feel fine again, you find out everything happened for a reason, some things were problems you didn’t even know about so it’s good you broke up…blah, blah, blah. Oh, and you get over it. In general. So that’s nice. Being depressed sucks. Remind me not to do that again.

And here’s the kicker: You look at girls again a few weeks later, and you think, “Wait, she’s REALLY attractive. Can I call her? I CAN??!? And she’d “date” me?? Well why didn’t anyone tell me this shit, I would have stopped sitting in a dark room eating cheez-its while crying a LONG time ago if I knew this was going to happen.” And then, ironically, all you want to do is talk about THAT girl. And all of the sudden you are doing it all over again. And the irony feels so good, you just start it all over again. So that’s hysterical.

So sorry for the break. I hope you are still reading, because i’m gonna try my darndest to win your hearts back. I didn’t want to break up. It’s not you, it was me. But I’m cool now. I think I’m the funniest person in the world again. And my music taste is impeccable. So let’s get the shit kicked out of us by love.

The song of the day is happy. Because I’m happy again, so I thought i’d go for the lowest common denominator. And if you don’t like Vampire Weekend, it’s probably because everyone and their mother told you to about them 4 months ago and you got annoyed and decided not to be a follower. Get over it. They make music that sounds like magic tricks and gummy bears. And I’d like to think this song is a clear gummy bear. Re: The best gummy bear of all time.

SIDENOTE: Isn’t it ironic that this whole post is about not blasting out your life because it may be weird later after you reveal too much, and that’s all I’m doing the entire time? I feel pretty good about it. YES WE CAN!

04-ottoman-1

So I woke up on a street corner at 4am in Menlo Park this weekend. True story.

I’m still trying to figure out what was going on in drunk drew’s head. There are MILLIONS of questions here, probably starting with “why did you fall asleep on a street corner at 4am this weekend in Menlo Park.” I’ve put the story back together through many renditions and follow up research through many sources, so I think I finally have it down.

So, it’s probably never a good idea to drink a glass of champagne to start the evening with a raspberry in it. I mean, just on a lot of levels. This is not going to give you any image you were probably striving for at the wedding. You know, like “I like girls.” What I’ve also discovered is that the waiters at the Circus Club (where the reception was held) will pour wine until you can’t feel feelings anymore. Honestly, those guys are GUNNERS. Take a sip, BAM, he’s poured aggressively for you again. Next sipHE’SALREADYPOUREDAGAIN. “Wait sir, that was my fifteenth glass, I think I just need to slo..” POURED AGAIN. So this is probably where the sound mindset I acquired for the rest of the night came into play. Fast forward to leaving the reception (after cleverly switching to vodka tonics, which were obviously gonna keep the night going, and/or make me not be able to open my left eye by 9pm), and our crew cleverly decides to go to the bar that has zero rules whatsoever.

Soooo, begin the fratastic flip cup tournament. Which lasted about one hour longer than I needed to be drinking glasses of beer over and over again. My first sign of “maybe we should call it a night” begins here, where Kevin and Dave go shirtless for no other reason…well no good reason, and decide to wear their ties around their heads like Rambo. Now here’s where my favorite part begins.

Dave’s girlfriend tells me that I should sit tight, and that a cab is coming in ten minutes. I say, “that sounds great!” and then uh, just wander off down the street for no apparent reason. This is my fourteenth awesome decision of the night. After walking/trying to run, then realizing I don’t want to run at all and walking again for about 3 minutes, I randomly get into a car of two high school chicks. No, seriously. I don’t even ask who they are, I just assume that this is of course the “drew hoolhorst” shuttle going to the precise location I was aiming for. Good thinking Drew! Next time make sure they are holding a butterfiinger outside of the car and run after it! I then proceed to drink more (why do people do this?) at Patrick’s house, until I realize it’s 3:30 and everyone has either gone home or passed out. So, being about a mile or so away from home, I opt to obviously make that next walk instead of sleeping on one of the 9,142 beds or couches at said comfortable house I’m already at. High five, Drew!

So in walking home about a block, I realize, inevitably, that I don’t want to walk home at 3:30 in the morning, because it’s really far and walking has made me realize that I’m JUST not going to sober up anytime soon. I have evidence on the phone that at this point I google search yellow cab in menlo park (you know, since yellow cab or ANY cab company in the world is either 777-7777 or 333-3333), and call them for the pickup. I sit down on the corner and wait for the cab.

Fast forward thirty minutes later to the part where there is a cop nudging me as I’m laying face down on the street corner, full suit and tie. Strangely, I don’t even find this all that odd and keep professing that, “I was doing the right thing! I had the right intentions!” even though I have no idea what this really means. Since i’m a big boy grownup and am clearly wearing my big boy pants, I give the cop my mom’s phone number (26 years old…um…) and he drives me home. Upon arrival at casa de angry mother who kind of hates me, I proceed to now tell her that I was “doing the right thing! I had the right intentions!” When she asks where my jacket is that i’m mysteriously not wearing, I let her know that “I left it at my other house.” Um, what? Really Drew? Now the best part.

Upon waking up, I asked my mom how the cop found me. She informs me that he was called by a cab driver, who drove to the corner of Santa Cruz Ave. and Olive Ave. and found a guy face down on the street corner. He honked a bunch, but it appeared, “the kid was dead.” So yes, this weekend I was pronounced dead by Yellow Cab. But you know what? The way I see it? I’m the real winner, because all I wanted was a ride home. Not only did I GET that ride home, but it was free! AND I got to nap in between! DOUBLE WIN! I wish everyone was as smart as me.

So the moral of the story is: If you want a ride home, just call a cab, pretend to die on the side of a road and wait for the cops to come. Make sure to tell them that you are doing the right thing and that your intentions are good, and always leave your jacket at your other house. Oh, and have them call your mom. This will let everyone know how much of a big boy you are.

In other news, things are going pretty well right now. Prrreetttty well….

The song of the day is by the greatest thing Canada has ever birthed. Tokyo police club could hit a stick on an empty plastic cool whip container and yell “la la la tacos!” and I’d think it was the best song anyone ever made. Honestly, I challenge them to do this, I will spend 99 cents on the single. That’s a promise. They don’t have a bad song that i’ve found to this day, but this one just gets better and better with time. Enjoy. Oh, and thanks, random police officer. I owe you a ride sometime.

02-in-a-cave

So I got to thinking last night, and I think Apple is onto something but they need to take it to the next level. I mean, they basically are Motherbrain from Metroid these days (NERD01101NERD01001NERD), so I think it’s possible for them to do this and I want it to happen.

So this genius thing? Awesome. No, not the geniuses in the store, they are just glorified half-nerds who should be working at subway but instead got their cute little genius shirts to sit there and mock us all day long at the Apple store. The genius option I speak of is the one now in iTunes. They basically integrated pandora into iTunes… kudos, you cute little appleoids, you. Now, even on the iPhone when you are listening to a song, the little genius button appears and taunts you to hit it.

iPhone: “Oh hey Drew. That song is really good, I mean… I guess. If you are a loser. What? No I didn’t say anything. Anyways. You know what would be better though? No I mean, not to pry. Oh nevermind…oh wait you do want to hear what I have to say? Oh okay. Then how about these 13 songs? I know, perfect right? What can I say. I was made at Apple headquarters, also known as nerd heaven. K, later.”

So here’s what i’m thinking: what if you were in the process of calling someone, and apple set up an option where you could hit the genius button in THIS situation? I KNOW. AWESOME. Basically, your phone could say, “whoa whoa…I mean, I like Ashley just as much as you do…but I did some research in your phone book and her phone book, and here is a list of friends i’ve come up with that would be a better conversation at this point. No, Drew, trust me, it’s gonna be way better and I think you’d be better off just calling these people. Call Sarah first, but then be sure to call Erica next. Oh man, that one’s gonna be awesome. Remember, i’m iPhone. I’ve seen the future. Robots take over, but we’ll get to that later. Oh, and remember this: peaches shaped like octagons…it’ll make more sense later…IT’LL MAKE MORE SENSE LATER.”

Think about it…personally? I don’t make good life decisions it turns out. Right now i’m living alone in my apartment looking for a roommate and my rent is too expensive, and I juuuust keeeeeep on buying 34×32 jeans when I KNOW i’m a 34×30. On top of that, I continue to eat cheeze-its when I know they just aren’t gonna make me feel that good. And really, Drew, 3 DAYS before you can shave. Or else it’s going to look like you got in a battle royale with wolverine again. And he kicked your face’s ass…like you didn’t even get a punch in, you just took it like a chump. So why not just give in all together and let Apple make my life decisions as well at this point? I know Steve has the technology in there somewhere. I swear they are making dolphins that make music underwater right now through iSonar, AMONGST other things, but that’s a whole different theory of mine. Okay I’ll stop, but point being…c’mon Steve, give us the life genius button. I know it exists.

The song of the day, my friends, is essentially one you would hear me moronically howling out of my car or apartment if you were ever in the neighborhood. But you aren’t, so you don’t. If you were though? Howlling. I think most people hate it, but I mean, talk about a song about making a comeback and pulling your shit together. And the guy is just a total whambulance like myself, so I enjoy a fellow whiner. Eh Eh Eh Eh Eh Eh Eh….here’s to you, Born Ruffians. You are making this little jew sing again. And he needs it. And that “eh eh” part a sentence back makes no sense unless you actually listen to the song. MINDGAMES, HA! K bye.

01-this-sentence-will-ruin-_-save-your-life

The movie “Disaster Movie” makes me want to kick people in the shins. Not because of seen it, but because it exists. They aren’t even TRYING to make sense anymore, they are just putting a bunch of unfunny things together for the creation of an entire film. It’s like producers went to a frat house and grabbed the guy who thinks wayans brothers movies are funny and asked him to write an entire script. I mean, “amywinehouse kindacurrentevent juno! baby hulk!” isn’t funny. That though process, being made into a sketch? Not funny. Make another movie again, and I will seriously come to your house, ring your doorbell, punch you in the face and then leave immediately. Maybe i’ll try to pee on your front porch, but i’ll get stage fright, realize I can’t and just leave. That may happen, too. I think what scares me the most is that it has made ten million dollars. I did the math, and I could have bought like 2,857,143 jamba juices with that. Which means that for the next 7,287 years I could have one jamba juice every day. Which, for all those keeping score at home, is not possible, you are right. Point being, we could all be drinking a lot of jamba with the money this movie is making. Somebody make the bad man stop.

The bus passed a store titled “Hair Now” today. I thought this was a horrible name for a store, as I don’t think that if I asked for hair now, they would give it to me. So hey, guess what hair now, you don’t make any sense. (ba dum CHING! definitely the seinfeldism of the day, sorry. humor me.)

I’m severely bothered by the Cialis commercials on TV, and really, it’s only because of that one scene where they are sitting in bathtubs gazing out at the ocean. This is impossible. On so many levels, this perplexes me. First of all, old people are NOT flexible enough to be having sex in small bathtubs. If you can’t get an erection? It’s probably time to stop trying to have sex in complicated positions in general in small confined areas. Secondly, they aren’t in the same bathtub together, and I find that depressing. But finally…HOW did the hot water get in that bathtub? There is NO water hookup, and if hot water did somehow magically get in there? It’s VERY cold now. They are old, they would be very cold. The sea breeze alone would send them into hypothermic chills. C’MON cialis…think things THROUGH before making your ED commercials.

There is a McDonald’s commercial on right now that talks about how you can’t get anything for a buck anymore. I mean, valid. So the guy deals with all these things that he can’t get for a buck. But wait a minute…what about McDonald’s? They tell him he can get a chicken sandwich there for a buck, alright! PROBLEM SOLVED! But WAIT a minute…right after this, he has fries and a coke as well. Oh, really McDonald’s? Well, if Bob had been asking other places what he could have gotten for $3.74, maybe he would have gotten a different answer, now wouldn’t he have? I call bullshit on you. Also, don’t forget to add in the five extra dollars he’ll need for the diarrhea medication he’ll need after eating your products. Thanks.

On my fantasy football team, my tight end is injured and he is thinking of taking a couple of weeks off. I would like to call him into my fantasy office to have a fantasy conversation about how he should fantasy buck the fuck up because i’m going to lose the sport i’m having him play for me. It was hard enough for me to draft someone whose parents were mean enough to name him “Dallas”, now I have to go find another person to play the sport for me so I don’t have to.

The song of the day is delicious and poptastic, and I just found it yesterday and have listened to it and it alone for like 9 hours straight. Enjoy.

05-perfect-games

Let’s all pretend to feel bad for Levi Johnston. I mean, he’s just a random 18 year-old kid who thought, “Hey, you know what would be awesome? Having sex! I should totally start doing that.” And you know what, Levi? Not a bad idea. Here’s where you misfired though (HEY o!)…

Yes, Levi. Sleeping with girls is a fantastic idea. You know what else is? Maybe wearing a “no babies” device while doing so. And here’s the real bummer: you picked the governor’s daughter. I know, I know. I bet it was like, high fives all around when you were telling your hockey bros about this. I bet you are prettttty pissed at John McCain right now though. I mean, what are the odds that the girl’s mom you were doing was possibly going to become the new vice president? Because now? Um, I don’t think you are really getting out of this one. Oh you have hockey practice? Guess what! Now you have “take care of a baby” practice! You have the Republican National Convention! Oh also, if you leave Bristol now you are the biggest dick in the entire world and your entire state will hate you. No pressure though.

In all honesty? I feel bad for the guy. Yes…his myspace page makes him sound like the biggest douchewad on the entire earth. But you know what? He’s in high school or college. This is essentially where everyone (parents) sticks you for four years so they just don’t really have to deal with you. I mean, college is essentially just a holding bay for idiots, or mini-adults who can’t really do anything…at all yet. So when you go there? This is the kind of thing you do. You sleep with people. You make horrible decisions. Also, in a sidenote I just judged an 18 year old’s myspace page, so that’s embarrassing. Maybe later on today I can go make fun of a six year old’s dribbling skills at a soccer practice!

I guess it just goes to show you shouldn’t sleep with a government official’s kid. Maybe next time just pick the cheerleader whose mom works at the puffy paint shop or the moose-hunting store. Not the “leader of the free world” store.

So for starters, I’d like to address something I have a problem with. Why do people in movies (I assume in real life as well, since everything in the movies is real) who carry guns put the gun away in the front or back of their pants with the barrel facing towards their private parts? Or their foot? This seems like a HORRIBLE and terrifying idea. Everytime I see someone do this in a movie, I feel like an insane old lady screaming at the screen. NO WILL! YOU ARE GOING TO BLOW YOUR BITS AND PIECES OFF! But honestly, get a holster. It’s just not safe. And it seems like a large price to pay so you can just have a hand free. I digress.

So here’s something I’ve realized since I’ve begun writing this cute little pile of rocket shoes: it’s hard to keep up. I mean, don’t get me wrong… I’m the funniest person I know and everything I think up is pure genius gold. However, I guess I just never gave all the people who do this so mercilessly as a job enough credit. I love to write. I love to say all the random crap that comes into my head. But sometimes? Thoughts just don’t equal big old diatribes or essays. You can force it, sure. But then it sounds dumb and it’s not…um, interesting. As i’m sure this post isn’t for the most part. But that’s the fun of a blog! It’s fulfilling for ME all the time and for you only some of the time! I WIN!

I’d love to write about how much I hate the fact that “Disaster Movie” came out, or that anything with the name “movie” in it comes out at all (excluding “not another teen movie”, which I hate to admit was funny). I’d love to write about the downfall of Dane Cook and how he became the bag of douche he so loathed. I’d love to even discuss my man crush for Ryan Reynolds and how I wonder if he’s overtaking my man crush on John Mayer (yeah, I just admitted it, on both accounts). Point being…I guess you just gotta wait until you have something to say. Which I have zero idea how to do. Whoops. So um, scratch all that up there and prepare for every one of those posts I just mentioned. Or something about how Sarah Palin may very well be a robot. But like a terminator robot, not a fun robot. The kind that has laser eyes and wants to kill people with arms that turn into evil guns. That or she’s just a bad person.

Bottom line is that Rocket Shoes is a work in progress. It’s kind of like a new girlfriend to me that I just REALLY want to impress, so I try way too hard. I don’t understand that hey, it likes me, it’s gonna hang out as long as I’m a good guy. So hey, if you people are around to catch my ramblings? I’ll be a happy little guy.

Song of the day is short and sweet. Mobius Band is way too good for no one to have heard of them. What is that all about? They blend the electronic disco dancing beats with the melancholy emo-guy sad sap lyrics…so it’s strange, but a lot of his sadness just ends up sounding really happy. To sum it up: I listened to these guys a lot when I was a gold miner. Yes. Seriously. More on that later. Enjoy the indie-tasticness.

05-friends-like-these

So here’s the thing: I really like Barack Obama, and I don’t really like republicans, in general. I know, I know…”you’re perpetuating the partisan problem by simply using a blanket statement when not all republicans are the same!” Fair enough. Um, I just don’t care though. You guys elected the dumbest human being into office two times in a row, and the rest of the world basically hates us now because of it. Just on principal? This makes me really not happy with you guys right now. I just don’t get it, and after Obama just gave one of the greatest speeches in the history of politics (outrageous over exaggeration that I will in no way try to back up with any reasoning or factual evidence, I just thought it was great), the republican “take” on it is hilarious.

I was reading this morning that the knock on Obama from republican doubters, apparently, is that he’s good at talking. To people. (?) I’m confused. So the knock on the guy we are nominating as our presidential candidate is that…he speaks well? And in turn, people like him? Wait, I don’t get it. Instead, you guys want to elect the guy who’s like eight billion years old? Because personally, I say we go with the guy who makes complete sentences and is not a year away from drooling on himself. John McCain looks like he should be in an old person’s home. I say this because he’s 72. Which is old. And personally? I kind of think that’s something we should think about. When was the last time you had a huge decision to make, and you ran up to an old person and yelled, “think fast!” I’m guessing they had a heart attack. I say that not to be funny, but because that’s what happens when you get older, and I think we all agree that kind of sucks, This is why when people get older we suggest they take it a little easier. You’ve been living for, you know, a REALLY long time now. Maybe just sit this one out.

I guess another thing that confuses me is that people’s knock on Barack (that rhymed, HEY o!) is that he’s too normal and…not like other Washington politicians. Again, this thoroughly confuses me. We don’t like the guy for president because…people like him? I thought it was kind of a good thing that he didn’t talk like a robot, and seemed like you may even be able to hang out with him. John McCain seems like the father of that girl you dated who is the one drawback to dating her: He’s this creepy, monotone guy who tells horrible jokes and doesn’t let you call him by his first name. And he also has that mothball “old person” scent. Also, the big musician celebrity he has supporting him is Daddy Yankee. I just thought this should be noted.

I watched a man speak last night who, for the first time in my young life, was a politician that truly made me proud to be an American. It felt like other countries were going to like us again. Maybe even invite us over for dinner. Like when the world cup came around? I could actually BE like those crazy ass, awesome Brazilian fans who look proud to wear their yellow and green to support the nation. I’m not trying to be some unappreciative shit: I know it’s great to live here. George Bush has just really set us back a billion years. He’s dumb, he’s dumb, and he’s dumb. And that is the man that the ENTIRE world associates us with. Do you go out to the bars at night and think, “Wait, let’s make sure to call the guy who sucks at life and says dumb things over and over again so everyone hates us and we get kicked out of everywhere we go! He should TOTALLY represent our friends tonight!” Because that’s what we did with nominating George Bush. And we have to walk around every bar saying, “I know, I know. I don’t know why we keep hanging out with him. He’s a total toolbox.”

So republicans, please find better reasons to not like Obama other than “he’s awesome and people like him”. It’s just a really poor argument and it’s making you sound dumb. Also, you guys should talk to old man river about picking the VP nominee that hates gay people and wants creationism to be taught in schools. Wow. What is this, 1962? Did he find her in the cave she’s been hiding in where she’s waiting to hear who won the civil war? The icing on the cake would be that she doesn’t think women should have the right to vote. I wouldn’t even put it past anyone in the republican party anymore to be this ironically lost in the woods.

I’m not arguing politics. I’m sure some asshole can win that argument with lame “hard-hitting” political analysis and “blah blah blah”. And that’s fine. The thing is? I just want to pick the guy I really like, that other people really like, and that seems normal. I’m not really that keen on picking the guy who sucks at life and is 412 years old. Oh, and he’s friends with George Bush. I mean honestly…that should be enough right there.