A Tale of Two Bars and Why the Douchebags Who Frequent One Are the Kavanaughs to Avoid

A talented musician I knew was playing a show in my former undergrad town. After the show, he was just wandering around the downtown area, looking for a nice place to unwind.

Now, there were two popular bars that sat side-by-side in downtown Iowa City, home to the University of Iowa. One, the Sports Column was, you guessed it, a sports bar, filled with TVs, neon, Bud signs, and dedicated to, you guessed it, SPORTS. The Sports Column was to be avoided at all costs. It was filled with drunken, white fratboys binge-drinking and spoiling for a fight, and the sorority girls who put on heels and tiny dresses, tottering through the frigid streets in December, refusing to wear a coat because it would mess up their “look,” to appease them.

The other was the Deadwood, a filthy, dark room filled with sticky booths, pool tables in high demand, and a jukebox that was constantly cranking out James Brown, the Velvet Underground, and classic Rolling Stones songs at all hours of the day. A constant cloud of cigarette smoke hung about two feet above all the tables at all times, and pitchers of cheap Wisconsin beer Leinenkugel’s flowed to keep the liberal arts majors going.

The exit to the Sports Column was right next to the Deadwood, so clearly, if you’d never been there before, you could get easily mixed up on how to get into the Deadwood.

“I tried to go into the Deadwood, and there were a bunch of drunk fratboys rolling out of the door,” my friend told me, who was alone at the time. “They said to me, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going, fag?’ ” and pushed me around.”

“That’s the Sports Column,” I told him. “Not surprised.”

My friend did eventually find the door to the Deadwood, and he had a good time. I have tons of fond memories of that place. It’s where I drank coffee and watched “The Simpsons,” which they played every afternoon as a study break. It’s where my writer, arts, theater and science-geek friends–basically anyone who wasn’t a business major or in a frat or sorority–hung out and drank beer and smoked cigarettes and played pool and pumped quarters into the jukebox to hear songs recorded well before any of us were born, and where most importantly of all, we talked about ideas. Works of art. Things were were working on, creating, passionate about, and hopes of what we were going to do after college.

I probably shouldn’t make too many assumptions about the bro bars of the world, but what the fuck, I’ll go ahead anyway. I’m pretty sure those types of convos were not the norm at the Sports Column. And if the one frat party I attended is any indication of that culture–where my friends and I were immediately critiqued out loud on our looks and criticized for not bringing any beer–well, these were cultures we quickly learned to avoid at all costs.

Iowa City, home to the University of Iowa, is perhaps a great example of the stark lines that divide the Left and the Right–even back then. Home to a Big Ten football team and SPORTS, you are constantly in the shadow of these big-money generating items for the school, and all the privileges that come with them. On the other hand, you are at one of the best state schools for writing in the country, home to the Writers’ Workshop, and all the literary giants that come with that.

As a liberal arts student, and a poor white kid, the lines between the haves and have nots, and where you landed was never not in your face. You were reminded on the daily that you were just lucky to be there. Whether your class was being rescheduled to accommodate football players, who never showed up by the way, to privileged white kids from moneyed suburbs of Chicago spouting off in rhetoric class that affirmative action is bullshit, because those poor kids from the South Side got bussed in for one week to try for college admissions, and if they didn’t make it in, it was all their fault and too fucking bad for them.

You never forgot which side you were on.

And the privileged, bro-ey culture reigned supreme. The scariest, most violent moments of my life, either being followed while running, men exposing themselves to me, being yelled at from moving cars and things thrown at me, to outright being almost assaulted, all happened and thrived in this good ol’ college town.

These guys are the Brett Kavanaughs of the world. And, yes, they can sadly be dumped into a few stereotypes: Entitled, probably bored, insecure, they live for messing with other people to elevate themselves. They go looking to start trouble, predators going out for the night. Hence, the barfights.

This statement alone from the NY Times is filled with so many embarrassing moments, he really should be banished to a Chevy dealership somewhere in the ‘burbs.

According to a police report, Judge Kavanaugh, then an undergraduate at Yale, was accused of throwing ice at another man “for some unknown reason” at a bar in New Haven. Chad Ludington, one of Judge Kavanaugh’s college classmates, said in a statement on Sunday that the altercation had occurred after a UB40 concert, when he and a group of people went to a bar called Demery’s and were drinking pints. The brawl began when the group was staring at a man they thought resembled the lead singer of UB40, irritating him.

Let’s just take a collective moment to stop, think, and laugh that Kavanaugh probably spent money to see UB40.

Brett Kavanaugh, despite his academic accomplishments, still is at his core one of the guys who talk about their “Glory Days,” which Bruce Springsteen so poignantly depicts in his song about small-town heroes who grow up to be adult losers who continue to wax poetic about being small-town heroes, who really, were just privileged douchebags who got everything they wanted before they turned 18 and are now bitter that life didn’t just continue to roll out the red carpet forever for them.

The sad thing is, we KNEW who these guys were, in high school, in college, and now in the boardrooms of life, where, no kidding, you are still constantly reminded that you’re just fucking lucky to be there. And we avoided–and continue to avoid them–at all costs.

The unfortunate thing is that sometimes it is impossible to avoid them. How often a Kavanaugh clone injects themselves into our paths to mess with us just to mess with us. A display of pathetic power over people who already have less power to begin with.

To me, this whole Kavanaugh confirmation hearing simply goes back to a tale of two bars in Iowa City over two decades ago. One, a hotbed of white privilege being driven into a needless, fruitless frenzy fueled by beer and boredom and entitlement. The other, a bar filled with all kinds of different people, coming together peacefully to talk about and get excited about ideas.

At the end of every bar night in Iowa City and last call at 2 a.m., I can’t even tell you how many rollicking bar fights came flying out of the Sports Column’s doors as people calmly strolled out of the Deadwood, dodging those bodies on our way home.

I think that behavior speaks for itself.

Why you should never, ever ride an elephant

Meeting an elephant can be many things—daunting, thrilling, invigorating—but nothing really prepares you for that first up-close encounter. The only word that can capture that is magical.

“Welcome to Jurassic Park,” said an Australian in our group, as we gazed out on dozens of the massive creatures freely strolling the grounds. It will not be the last time the famous dinosaur park movie is referenced at this elephant rescue camp.

Elephant Nature Park is a haven for rescued animals just over 37 miles north of Thailand’s second largest city, energetic and artsy Chiang Mai. The park is home to 66 elephants that have been rescued from brutal trades, including logging in the mountains, trekking camps and circuses.

img_1629Thailand banned commercial logging in 1989, but several businesses that rely on elephant power unfortunately remain and often use abusive practices on these magnificent creatures. “Working” elephants are required to toil long hours, fed too little to maintain a healthy body weight, and many endure the aforementioned cruel physical abuse at the hands of their owners.

The park was founded by Sangduen Chailert, or “Lek,” who was born in a nearby mountain community. Lek, with her husband Adam, created the park in 1996 as a refuge for these magnificent giants, giving them a forever home. She is viewed as a pioneer in new elephant tourism.

“All it takes is one person with an idea to do something different,” said my Dutch guesthouse owner in Chiang Mai. “When she started that camp, people thought it was crazy. They were like, ‘Who is going to pay money to just see elephants doing nothing, no tricks, no performances?’ ”

It turns out a lot of people are willing to pay for that. In Thailand’s January high season, the park was absolutely filled with hundreds of guests on the viewing decks to view the elephants in a natural habitat.

The elephants are left free to roam, each in small herds or on their own. When a new elephant arrives at the park, it chooses a group, usually comprised of three to six animals, and if that pack’s leader accepts the new addition, the elephant has happily found a new family. The park is dotted with different “herds,” each with its own distinct personality—some are quiet, older animals, some packs include babies and teens that are more playful and rambunctious.

img_1514Every elephant has its own mahout, the caretakers carefully watching, feeding and communicating with their animal. It is an amazing sight to watch a mahout instruct his elephant or guide it to viewing spots, like the river to bathe, or the main guesthouse for a hand-feeding of watermelons and squash.

Given many of the animals’ heartbreaking stories, it is a great relief to not see a whip or chain in sight. As you tour the park, guides share the backstories of many of the elephants. One 70-plus-year-old matriarch has a story that is horrid but all-too-common here. Formerly in the logging trade, she had given birth high on a steep mountain and lost her baby as it fell down the hill. In mourning, she could not work, and her owner beat her and took a slingshot to her eyes, blinding her with rocks.

Yet another elephant had stepped on a landmine, devastatingly injuring her foot. Yet others have suffered broken legs and hips, or significant mental and physical abuse. A former circus elephant cannot have a photo taken because the shutter reminds her of years of abuse while performing for pictures. Yet despite these traumas, the elephants show remarkable resiliency and appear at peace, even happy.

The guest experiences involve tending to the elephants’ comfort and needs. Each animal eats about 20 hours per day, sleeping only four. It takes a significant amount of food to sustain each one, Asian elephants eating about 300 pounds of food per day. Guests hand-feed them, placing an abundance of fruit and veg in their trunks to eat, and take them to the river to throw buckets of cool water on them at bath time.

img_1616Standing next to your first elephant for a photo is a simply unforgettable experience—their sheer size, the fluidity of their movements, the way their trunk unfurls to grab a cucumber or watermelon, the thick, rough texture of their skin and the soulfulness of their eyes. Despite their massive size, elephants are superbly graceful. They don’t walk, they almost glide and are so quiet that one weighing two or three tons can sidle up right next to you without you even noticing.

On the last day, as dusk was nearing, and the elephants were leaving the mud hole, a mahout approached his elephant, talking to her for some minutes, touching his forehead to hers. Even from several feet off, you could tell the elephant completely understood, a mutual exchange of respect and adoration.

“I see them every day,” said our guide with a smile, taking in the scene. “And I never get tired of watching them.”

Elephant Nature Park offers several different excursions, starting with day trips to extended volunteer options. Find out more about the park here.

Things I Could Give a Crap Less About That Make People Go Apeshit

Did you know there’s a football game this weekend?

The other day, when I pulled up my head and asked, “Hey, just who is in the Super Bowl anyway?” I got nothing but dead silence from my co-workers. Not from shock that I didn’t know. It’s just that none of them give a shit about the Super Bowl either.

I really dislike football. Period. Always have. I think it is excruciatingly boring to watch. And I can’t follow the rules for shit, nor do I care to learn. Any sport that was hands off for the chicks in high school was dead to me. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a first or second down. Or what “off sides” means. Or why roided up giants tend to be the most violent dudes on campus. The excitement/slash/support-the-team mentality that was forced upon us in high school marching band–especially those 7 a.m. in the fucking freezing cold rehearsals–didn’t help either.

I mean, it is Green Bay. I suppose there's nothing else to do there.

After a drunk kid threw up next to us at the very beginning of a Big Ten game when my parents were visiting, and we had to sit over that vile pile of puke in the stands, I vowed never to attend another football event again.

However, that “Friday Night Lights” program was pretty fucking good. I think it had something to do with that hot blonde kid who plays action heroes now.

And, due to some stupid anti-gay remarks from the 49ers Chris Culliver, may I just say, dude, you are playing for the fucking San Francisco 49ers. Get with the program! Oh, and if someone has to win this thing, go Ravens.

Here are a few other socially accepted and celebrated things I can’t fucking stand:

1. Holidays. Nothing gets me more irritated than forced emotion and socializing. And the holidays are primed and ripe to make you feel nothing less than an inferior, socially inept human being who has failed your parents and/or children. Now that the consumerist nightmare called Christmas is over, Hallmark, Zales and the Cheesecake Factory are chomping at the bits to sink their fangs into you for the worst one yet–Valentine’s Day. That’s right, fellas, get those orders into 1-800 Flowers now lest you be shut off from the vag until Easter.

The only holidays that are acceptable are the ones that allow for spending time outdoors and eating things with your hands–Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day and so forth–with no forced gift-giving or spending time with the in-laws. You don’t need to suffer through church, or a pageant about Baby Jeebus, or make any trips to Target and get trapped in the parking garage for an hour. And that is just winning, Charlie Sheen style.

2. Live Concerts. Holy, shit, did you know Rihanna is coming to town? No, no I didn’t. Nor am I going to spend over $100 to buy her tickets that support her dumbass lifestyle. Are you a plus-40-year-old human being who gets excited when the Stones announce another tour, and pour your muffin top into your hot pants and too-tight T-shirt you bought during the “Bridges to Babylon” tour, just to get too drunk in the pre-concert tailgating party only to be puking your guts out during “Tumbling Dice”? Did you know that live, mega-concerts that cost more than $100 are the ultimate fleecing of the music fan? Now, you know.

Did you know Beyonce is in the Super Bowl? Did you know that soda and major athletic sponsors, like Coke and Pepsi, contribute to the obesity epidemic and childhood diabetes?

3. Chocolate. We get it. Chocolate’s great. It’s fucking tasty as hell. But it’s not on par with a) winning the Powerball, b) sex with a vampire or c) sitting outside and eating various things with your hands in the sun. I feel about the same way about chocolate commercials as I do about flavored vodka–and we all know how I feel about that.

4. Cheap alcohol. If you are out of college, and/or over the age of 25, the thrill of cheap alcohol–or getting a deal on a bucket of Pabst–should not be a big deal for you. You are an adult. Cheap booze doesn’t equal good booze–and probably nothing you should be putting in your body if you value your stomach lining or your rectum. The same goes for spilling a beverage or leaving a half-drunk glass on the table. It is not a big deal. As a tax-paying adult, one of the few things you are entitled to is not slamming a beverage before you leave, or having some 43-year-old jackass yell “party foul” at you.

5. In fact, getting free anything. I used to review movies–and it was awesome. The best screenings were the private press ones, where only a handful of you sat in an empty theater and got to enjoy a film in silence. The worst? When they made you attend an “open screening” that some KISS radio station gave out free promotional tickets to. Those cattle calls made my skin fucking crawl. If you are the kind of person who obsesses over getting ultimately worthless, free, tacky shit, you must stop it. Free doesn’t equate with something of value. And it certainly isn’t worth getting into a fistfight over and spilling your bucket of popcorn at a free screening of “American Pie: The Ultimate Reunion Reunion 2020.”

I'm quite certain that this entire franchise exists to allow those involved to pay their mortgages.




Aquasizing Nation!

I’ve practically done it all at the gym–kickboxing, boot camp, I’ve even had the misfortune of trying some hip-hop dancing once at a New York Sports Club in Brooklyn. And no, I haven’t had sex in the sauna. That’s gross, people.

But tonight, I did something I never, ever thought I would ever do. I aquasized.

There I was, 20 minutes to 6 p.m., taking advantage of a practically empty pool. The gym floor was in the throngs of post-work Tuesday night madness–empty-eyed shells of human beings queuing up for 30 minutes on the Elliptical and “Anderson Cooper 360.” As for me, I felt so smart for taking advantage of the pool. So clever indeed. About 10 minutes into my laps, when old ladies in pairs starting randomly dropping into my lane, I could smell something was up. And that something was aquasizing, fuck yeah.

If you’ve ever wanted to plop yourself into a casting call for “Cocoon”–or feel like the youngest, thinnest, hottest thing in the room–then this is the exercise for you.

In between listening to complaints about their knee surgery that didn’t take and how cold the pool is (it was 84 degrees, people) we finally got down to business. And I always wondered what the business of aquasizing is all about.

So, it’s this: A bunch of strength building, balance and resistance exercises–basically like yoga in the water, which is why, I guess, my shitty gym co-opted the hippie yoga teacher from the yoga hour before to teach our class. And walking back and forth from one end of the pool to the other. And I finally figured out what those noodles are for. After an hour of sloshing around, I realized, it’s no lap-swimming cardio workout, but my triceps were burning.

I also realized that aquasizing is a lot like “Coffee Talk” or a ladies’ social hour. Hell, there were two women in the back who didn’t do anything but half-ass lift a leg here and there and gossip. And in a brief moment, I thought, this isn’t half bad. Exercise that doesn’t suck.

Aquasizing, Steve Gutternberg optional.

Now, don’t be thinking that you can bust out aquasize twice a week and get into shape. This ain’t no Cross Fit. But if you’re looking for a different kind of strength-building to complement your weights-and-cardio routine, and for some KILLER people-watching and eavesdropping when you’re done with the date-rapists-in-training and the sorority girls on the gym floor, then aquasizing just might be for you–like sampling old without actually being old. And if old is splashing around a pool for an hour and gossiping, then it ain’t looking half bad.

I will not, however, nor will I ever, Zumba.

Hehe. Old people without their shirts on. And Wilford Brimley!



2012: It’s the Final Countdown: What would a Cosmo Girl do? (or day five)

Back in the day, someone gave me some very bad sex advice.

“What you got to do is get yourself a ‘Cosmo,’ ” said my friend Cheeseman (and yes, Cheeseman is his real name). “And, you know, pick up some sex tips.”

Imagine that being chirped at you in a very white male Republican voice.

“Cheeseman,” I said. “I’m not 12. I know how to give a blow job.”

The other day, I picked up a stack of magazines from my building’s gym. (hey, I know what you’re thinking; but I put my old magazines there when I’m done with them and return these–it’s like a lending library). And for kicks, I thought I’d pick up the Nov. 2012 issue of ‘Cosmopolitan’ magazine.

A few minutes with ‘Cosmo’ reminded me of why I despised it a decade ago. It’s Real. Bad. Writing. Sex lists by interns fresh out of Oberlin and Vasser, who’ve had awkward sex twice with their junior-year prom date and a slightly uncomfortable shower experience with the resident lesbian on their dorm floor in college. Sex writing in Cosmo consists of ideas of what Awesome Sex Must Be Like as imagined by those who have no idea what real sex is like, i.e. my kindergarten self, who had a crush on Luke Skywalker and imagined that having sex with him involved sitting across from one another and peeing into one another’s crotches. And EL James.

And now, verbatim, advice from ‘Cosmo,’ that will probably not get you through the coming Mayan apocalypse, but might very well entertain you on your smartphone while you’re stuck in traffic escaping a fiery hellball. (for added fun, imagine that this advice is being read to you by a very buzzed Kathie Lee on the fourth hour of the ‘Today’ show.)

1. “Lie on your back with your head hanging off the bed, and slid his penis into your mouth. It’s a good way to reduce your gag reflex.” (Ed note: Also, good way to choke to death.)

2. “Are there any oral moves that my husband can try that will make him feel more like my vibrator? …ask him to try tongue flutters…he can also wrap his lips around his teeth, put your clitoris between them, and use a biting motion.” (Biting and clitoris, two things that will never be friends.)

3. “When I arrived at the cabin, I noticed Chris right away. With deep brown eyes, a friendly smile, and quarterback arms.”(QB arms? What’s next? Tight-end anal?)

4. “Speaking fluent 20something is hella awesome. Overuse slang like amazeballs while you can still get away with it.” (Or until someone like me punches you in the face.)

5. “Pull up a pic of Ryan Lochte’s bod on your phone…” (We can’t masturbate to stupid, Cosmo. Give us something to work with here.)

6. ‘Get Tipsy in the Tub: Two magic words that’ll get your guy on board with spa night: booze and nakedness…Pour a quarter bottle of red into a warm bath and hop in.’ (That better be two-buck chuck you’re tossing in.)

7. ‘This weekend head out in your favorite leather jacket, no shirt required. The wicked fabric on your bare skin will make you feel extra naughty.’ (Me so naughty, tee-hee!)

8. ‘Cosmo is to sex positions what Apple is to the iPhone.’ (Steve Jobs, blow jobs...)

9. ‘Laze between the sheets with your man and a sweet treat this weekend. The perfect spoon-feedable, romantic dish? Rich chocolate mousse.’ (Really, now, who does this?)

10. ‘Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives is a freak-of-nature show–it makes our mouth water, and it gets men to actually watch the Food Network with us. This weekend, take him to lunch at a Guy Fieri-approved locale.’ (Dear ‘Cosmo,’ The New York Times would like to take you out to dinner, then a little backdoor action. And no, they’re not going to take you to brunch or introduce you to their friends the next day. Or call you back. Ever.)


2012: It’s the Final Countdown. Day four.

The world can be an awful place. The world can also be an incredibly fun, amazing place. Can you grasp these two concepts at the same time unlike most human beings who struggle to hold two opposing thoughts at once? Good, let’s go.

Sign Four the World Will End Dec. 21, 2012 (sometime in the nearish future):

Because a chunk of ice bigger than the United States melted off the North Pole this year.

Sign Four the World Will Not End Dec. 21, 2012:

Because a kid who grew up in the projects can do this.

Happy b-day, Jay-Z!

Let’s put doomsday on hold for this Holiday Gift Guide!

As you may know, the planet may or may not come to a crushing end on Dec. 21. However, lest you not plan for Dec. 25, well you could look like a real asshat around the old yuletide tree. Or you end up scrambling the weekend before, looking for cut-rate gifts from drugstores to make up for life going on. As someone who got stuck in the Target parking ramp for 45 minutes a few weeks back, attempting to do some non-holiday shopping, I do not want this to happen to you.

So, let’s take a walk through this gift guide, shall we? The bad news is that if Dec. 21 is truly it, well, then you will probably die in a fiery heap of tacky-ass shit, that will slowly melt and conform to your body, smothering and burning you to death, much like this awesome scene from ‘Game of Thrones.’ If the world doesn’t end? You’ve got enough tacky-ass shit on hand for every white elephant grab bag and annoying family get-together to get you through the coming dark days of forced socialization with people you can barely stand.

1. First up, Uggs. At times, I will be in a shoe section somewhere, perusing the goods, and will see something somewhat cute, then pick them up and see that they’re part of Jessica Simpson or Carlos Santana’s lines. No.

I feel the same about Uggs–an incredibly gross line that started with incredibly gross fake, fluffy boots that would be absolutely worthless in a real cold climate. I got a flyer from Uggs/Zappos in the mail just last week, featuring some smarmy looking toddlers sporting sparkly $150-$170 Uggs. So, if you have A) a crapload of disposable income and B) really want to make someone look stupid, get them these:

Thanks to Lorien for posting these beauts to FB last week.

2. Have someone on your list who shops from the TV? May I introduce you to HSN’s Antthony Designs Originals, lovely, stretchy knitwear sold in sets, and for two easy payments.

One of Antthony's more couture looks can be yours for $580.

3. How about some flavored vodka?

4. This is the ugliest fucking perfume bottle I have ever seen.

5. I don’t think they make these anymore, but you can make your own by sewing together a bunch of body sponges with twine.

6. A $50 Gold Buffalo Tribute Proof coin for only $9.95.

7. Coffee that’s been through a cat’s ass.

8. If you have a streetwalker on your list, may I suggest a subscription to Shoe Dazzle? (yes, shoes again…)

9. Who couldn’t use some Preparation H?

10. And while we’re back there, how about a gift certificate for some anal bleaching?

Or you can give some DIY home kits. Whatever this December holds in store, your friends will meet it head-on with the knowledge that their buttholes are squeaky clean and camera-ready.

Happy holidays!

2012: It’s the Final Countdown. Day three.

Sign Three the World Will End Dec. 21, 2012:

This is the most-watched YouTube video. Ever.

What is this shit?

Sign Three the World Will Not End Dec. 21, 2012:

When folks ask me if I miss NYC, I must admit, I do miss the random crazy a bit from time to time. You know, nothing life-threatening, but the crazy.

However, New Yorkers, fueled by overpriced real estate, a shitty job market, and people who TRY TO GET ON THE SUBWAY WHEN PEOPLE ARE STILL GETTING OFF, have a tendency to snap. And when they do, they do it big time. I especially loved hearing the spike in subway crime reports during the hellstormish, it’s-fucking-buttcrack-hot July and August, when folks have snapped so badly that assaults skyrocket. I especially loved the one July when not one, but multiple people in the subway attempted to assault others with variations of power tools. Good times, then.

That being said, the NYPD reported today that on Monday “no one was shot, stabbed or slashed,” according to this nifty article from the Wall St. Journal. That’s right, for one day everyone in NYC was somewhat human to one another. Of course, the fact that it was the day after a long holiday weekend — many annoying commuters were likely still on vacation or glued to their screens for Cyber Monday — probably kept some annoying asses off NYC transit. However, this is a monumental feat, one that even the police spokesman, Paul Browne, said that “he couldn’t remember the last time the city experienced 24 hours with no reported gun or knife violence.”

The murder rate in NYC is headed for an all-time low, too. 366 compared to 472 in 2011. Considering that my current hometown of Seattle — the land of passive-aggressive, over-educated white people — is barely clocking in at 22 projected murders this year, well, NYC you still look somewhat barbaric to people who fucking thank the busdriver EACH AND EVERY TIME they exit the bus, whether there are 20 other people doing it or not.

And so, New York, I have decided to become the Larry David of bus-exiting. Enough. Enough with all the “thank you’s” for common, stupid things. And when I refuse to thank the busdriver after the 12 people exiting before me do, I’ll think of you, NYC, and the big asshole you’ve helped me become.

Keep it classy, NYC!


2012: It’s the Final Countdown! Day two.

Yesterday, we started our countdown to Armaggedon It! Or just another Friday before Christmas that you can spend in fist-da-cuffs in a Wal-Mart fighting over that filthy porno doll, Elmo, or literally in fistin’ cuffs, which I’m sure exist, but I’m too afraid to google right now. (Lies. I googled it and found a lovely gay porn that featured two dicks snuggling in a butt-cheek sandwich.)

Sign Two the World Will End Dec. 21, 2012:

The proliferation of fucking flavored vodka.

Yes, that’s right. Flavored booze has been advertised by spunky Aussies looking to party, bitches trying to get skinny, and even two old coots. But it seems that the overload of recent fucking flavored vodka ads is at an all-time high. And this is a sign that the world is nearly over, we have no more new ideas except to make vodka fucking fluffed, whipped, creamed and tasting of caramel.

Since we’re all going to die, let’s relive these 30-second shill-jobs for vodka that is all simultaneously competing for the title of World’s Worst Alcohol:

First off, Amber Rose. Isn’t she fucking someone important?

Then there’s this horny broad:

And if you want to puke, just look at this page of Pinnacle flavored vodka tricks.

Why is it that this shit is always, always marketed to chicks, and P. Diddy gets to party in the desert with a bunch of cable actors? Oh, yeah, it’s because HE’S NOT DRINKING FLAVORED VODKA.

As if you needed any more proof that hell is indeed upon us, look no further than this: According to Huff Po, “nearly a quarter of all vodka consumer in 2011 was flavored…And ongoing growth for the vodka category in 2012, with flavored vodka expected to fuel that expansion with another double-digit gain.”

Sign Two the World Will Not End Dec. 21, 2012:

Because I just decided what I want to be for Halloween and wrote it in my 2013 calendar so I won’t forget and be all like, “Oh shit, what am I gonna be this year?” on Oct. 29 and get into fist-da-cuffs over the last slutty J-Lo dress at the costume store. Yeah, past self looking out for future self.

Do... or do not. There is no try.


2012: It’s the Final Countdown!

Enjoy your holiday? Good. If you pay attention to such things as the end of days, you may notice that another important day is looming on our December calendar–Dec. 21, 2012. Or as the Mayan calendars put it, the End of the World. Or a new beginning. Or one of these things.

If you remember, way back in 2009, I started this to live life to the fullest, grab bulls by horns, figure this thing out so I could not only get on with it, but enjoy it a little bit.

Lots of stuff happened. But now, well, damnit, you/we may just have a few more weeks to overconsume plastic consumer durables, enjoy Pier One holiday ads, stuff our faces with our stockpiled Twinkies and cry. Or that madness can roll right into January. Either way, I’ve decided to weigh the pros and cons of signs whether the world will end. And, as the world is a tricky place, I’ve decided to pick signs from each and every (week)day* until the apocalypse. Or not.

Sign One the World Will End Dec. 21, 2012:

R. Kelly finally released the third installment of “Trapped in the Closet” over the holiday weekend on IFC. Missed it? Don’t worry. IFC is a low-budget channel that will continue to play it over and over and over until infinity…or the 21st, if, well, you know. Don’t know what you’re doing with the last three weeks of your life? This should be a high priority on your list.

Sign One the World Will Not End Dec. 21, 2012:

They are making more of Arrested Development.

What signs will God and/or “The Voice” give us tomorrow? Stay tuned to find out.

*Author reserves the right the pick signs each and every (week)day or every other day, or whenever I goddamn feel like it.