Etiquette in 7 Easy Steps

 How to properly behave in an Ivy League university library in New York City:

1. Wear something that screams, "I don't go to school here." Avoid wearing dark-rimmed glasses, makeup, scarves, deodorant, cardigans, and/or sweatpants. Do not carry a messenger bag or a metal water bottle. Once you enter the building, ask the old, sad man at the desk where the quietest spot in the building is. Tell him you're working on something "that I could tell you about, but it'd just be over your head."

2. Get lost. Go down a few flights of stairs/stares. Turn right, left, and then whatever direction you choose. If you find yourself amongst books, smusty mells, and sweaty college students - you're on your way.

3. Sit down. Do whatever you were going to do at said library. Open a book, go on Facebook, watch When Harry Met Sally, whatever. Stay for at least 30 minutes.

4. Get up to use the bathroom and ask some dumb looking kid with a Nike running t-shirt to watch your stuff. Ask him if he's a runner. Then say, "Yeah right" in response to his answer.

5. Oppa bathroom time.

6. Return to your stuff. Thank Mr. Marathon for his generosity of time and spirit and carry on with your activity.

7. Notice the gargoyle staring at you from above, mocking you.

3 More Deadly Poems, Part III

A man named Hank, an artist and a poet, was walking near the lake,

He turned around and saw something move, the bushes began to shake.

Then a pack of wolves surrounded him, the world became dark as night,

Poor Hank was then sadly eaten and he could no longer write.

A woman named Gail was gardening. Petunias, gardenias, and rose,

A wolf came out of nowhere and she went quickly for the hose.

The water was no match for the beast, as Gail was eaten alive,

She should have planted herbs, for wolves are allergic to chive.

Little Kevin was playing basketball, alone in his driveway,

He couldn't make a basket, though he practiced everyday.

A wolf came along and offered some help, "Here give me a try,"

He made the shot then ate the boy, that's how Kevin came to die.

But I Digress

It's not easy being the new kid. I was always the new kid. My family moved around a lot, not because of the military or job transfers, but because of ADHD.

I went from being the only black student in my 5th grade class in Boston to being the only white student in my new middle school in Philly. But I digress.

I joined a new therapy group last Tuesday night. I sat in the parking lot, nervous as hell. I smoked a Virginia Slim. Inhale, exhale. Relax, Gabe. They aren't going to tease you. This is a therapy group. They're just as damaged as you are. I mustered enough confidence to walk in. I walked in.

The high school basketball court was sectioned into two halves. The therapy half held a small circle of 10 chairs and a card table holding Chips Ahoy and coffee. The other half held basketball practice. Sectionals were tomorrow night. Go Eagles! But I digress.

I was the new kid again. Everyone looked at me and smiled those fake smiles you get when you walk into an art gallery wearing shorts. "Did anyone watch the Home Run Derby last night?" No response. I tried again. "I've been in therapy for 15 years!" Again, no response. What the hell is going on? I gave it one more shot. "The king of hearts is the only king in the deck without a mustache! Did you guys know that?" Some older gentleman rolled his eyes.

"Can we please get started, new guy? You're already 20 minutes late," said Mark or Greg (I can't remember), the therapist. There it was. NEW GUY. That's all I am to these people. I have at least a little bit of dignity. I stood up for myself.

"New guy? Is that all I am to you? What's next? Wedgies and swirlies? Another 3rd place finish in the science fair? Are you guys going to TP my house? Steal my tator tots? Make fun of my banana bike? Ask my sister to prom? Well she's not interested! So back off! She has a boyfriend back in Boston that's way bigger than you and is a black belt." I lost consciousness.

The next thing I remember, I was sitting against the wall, watching oddly tall 16 year olds shoot free throws. The Eagles lost in overtime the next night. They had a chance to win it with 3 seconds left. The shot hit back iron and the rival Spartans were Sectional Champs. Sometimes things just don't your way.

But I digress.

Four More Deadly Poems, (Famous People Edition)

There once was a lady, Gaga her name,

Like Cyndi Lauper, almost the same,

One day she was on stage and was eaten by wolves,

Not the fault of a person, as the 80s were to blame.

There once was a woman named Kesha,

Her hair was blond, her shirts mesh-a,

One day she became irrelevant, and was eaten by wolves,

And people cared even less-a.

There once was a man named Jay-Z,

I'm king of hip-hop, he did decree,

He had 99 problems, and was eaten by wolves,

Now Beyonce's a single lady, alone and free.

There once was a Jackson named Michael,

He told his siblings to take a hike-ael,

Once day he was moonwalking and was eaten by wolves,

On Facebook, his page has many like-aels (because he's dead).

Interesting Facts

Note: Some of the following may have happened.

I went to an audition last week. The audition was to get onto an improv team at a theater that had both the size and reputation of the kitchen in my college apartment, minus the stain behind the fridge (It was from spilled milk. No, I didn't cry. Yes I did.)

Improv auditions are strange. They're not unlike the Royal Wedding. A lot of build up and preparation only to be upstaged by someone better doing something better. The Queen married off William. Barack killed Bin Laden. You get it.

We first had to line up and say our names and something interesting about ourselves. I have two go-to facts that I bust out for auditions. 1) "I wore these pants yesterday," and 2) "I actually root for Lebron James." It wasn't until today that I realized these facts are neither interesting nor effective. Let's take a closer look...

1) I wore these pants yesterday. This is uninteresting because as I've come to learn, most people who perform improv only own one pair of pants. It turns out EVERYONE in the room wore their pants yesterday.

2) I actually root for Lebron James. This is uninteresting because as I've come to learn, most people who perform improv have never heard of Lebron James. When I say, "I actually root for Lebron James," most of the auditors look at each other and whisper, "Who the fuck is that? Who names their kid Lebron? And two first names? Yeech."

- Hi, my name is Gabe. To get me started can I get a suggestion of anything at all?

- A more interesting fact.

- Thank you.

The Apple Store

I went to the Apple store to fix my MacBook. It was a brand new store, in the heart of trendy Chicago. The people who worked there were cooler than me. Way cooler than me. I walked in and alongside the breezy air conditioning, an air of hipness smacked me in the face. WHACK. Now I'm not not a hip guy, I have thick, black rimmed glasses. I own a pair of Converse All-Stars. I've heard of the Black Keys. But I was out of place. I was Flavor Flav at the Royal Wedding. What's HE doing here?

I made an appointment online to meet with a Genius, which is fancy for computer technician, which is fancy for someone who owns or has access to a screwdriver. I walked over to the Genius Bar (don't ask for a Tequila Sunrise, they don't serve alcohol), and checked in. He was holding an iPad 2 and in a very friendly tone asked me my name. "Gabe," I said. "Wow, cool name!" said the Genius. "Are you Mexican?" "No," I said. "Cool!" said the Genius. "That's awesome!" I couldn't tell if he was on a heavy dose of cocaine or incredibly racist. Probably both.

I was told to sit and wait for the next available Genius station to open up. I sat. At the other end of the store, I heard piano music. I looked behind me and there was a guy sitting on a beanbag pushing non-existent buttons on an iPad, creating the music. A fake piano. I felt like I was a special guest at Hansel's bachelor party. Zoolander would be bursting through the door at any moment, I was sure of it.

I was called up to the Genius Bar. After telling a few hilarious jokes about ordering beers and passing law exams, we got to the point. My battery was shot. "Your battery is shot," said the Genius. "CRAP!" I said. "BUT I DON'T EVEN OWN A GUN!" The Genius looked at me with his genius eyes and said, "You need a new battery. It's not a big deal." "Oh, alright. Thank you kindly," I said.

I received my new battery and took a stroll around the store, checking out all the gizmos and gadgets and whatzits and whynots. This was not a place for normal people. The walls were talking, the floors were made of videos, and the ceiling was heaven itself. I was out of place. I couldn't find the exit. I approached a Genius, carefully. "How do I get out of here?" I asked. He replied, "There's no escaping. You may as well stay a while. Have you seen the new iPhones?" I started to sweat. My chest was pounding. The world started to close in around me. I was having a panic attack. I'm stuck here forever? Oh no! I didn't bring my Ray Bans. All I have is my Sony discman. They're all going to make fun of me. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S NO ESCAPING?" I asked. "WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? I HAVE TO GET HOME. I HAVE TO GO!" He looked at me with his genius eyes and replied, "Dude, the door is right there. I was kidding. It was a joke." "Thank you kindly," I said. And walked out.

Moral of the story? Don't trust anyone with an IQ over your own.

3 More Deadly Poems

1) There once was a guy named Chuck,

He was always running out of luck,

One day he went hiking and was eaten by wolves,

And boy, did that really suck.

2) There once was a girl named Kate,

She was always running late,

One day she got lost and was eaten by wolves,

And was on time at the Pearly Gate.

3) There once was a fellow named Mike,

He was always riding his bike,

One day he fell down, but wasn't eaten by wolves,

And then he...SIKE! (He was eaten by wolves).

Rappin' on the Train

Riding the red line home today, there were some guys on the back of the train beatboxing and rapping. A super duper fan of both of those things, I moved seats and sat closer to them to hear what they were rapping about. They were going around in a circle freestyling about their individual, athletic accomplishments and skills.

One guy said, "I be built like Fridge Perry, and knockin down threes like Larry." The next guy said, "I be ballin just like Jordan and be Shaun White-style boardin." Another guy said, "I got speed like Dwyane Wade, my tongue as sharp as Gretzky's blade."

I couldn't resist. I walked up to them and said, "Hello! My name is Gabe, may I join your raucous shenanigans?" They looked at each other. They looked at me. They looked at each other again, looked at me and the leader of the pack said, "Yup, let's see what you got."

They started to beatbox. I started to sweat. I hadn't freestyled in years! What had I gotten myself into? But here I was, standing in front of these incredible musicians, genius lyricists, soon-to-be hip hop legends, I had to impress, I had no other option. I gathered myself and started...

"Yo, yo, check it. I got hands so quick like Bonds, and then 'Woah' says The Fonz. When I'm done swimmin' you'll ask for help, cuz they call me Michael Phelp(s). Strategizin' like Lombardi, solving crimes like the boys Hardy. Eating for weeks only Kashi, to prepare to take down Kobayashi."

I stopped. I was sweating profusely. I looked at them and they looked at me. I looked at them again. They looked back. It was silent. A dapper man dressed in a tuxedo at the other end of the train stood up and said, "YO SON THAT WAS ILL! CAN YOU REALLY STRATEGIZE LIKE LOMBARDI? THAT GUY WAS A GENIUS!" I responded, "Not really, I just made it up for the rap. I'm not much of a football fan. But I do plan on eating a lot tonight. I mean, not like Kobayashi, but I may get two Subway sandwiches."

The guy looked at me and I looked back. "Good plan," he said. "All footlongs are five dollars this month."

How are the Ladies Treating You?

How are the ladies treating you? I hear that all the time. Seems like an innocent question. To the average person it simply means, 'Are you going on any dates?' or 'Have you French kissed anyone recently?' For me, however, it means something totally different.

After being raised in a rural Hungarian orphanage, this seemingly innocent question brings back some horrid memories. The atheist nuns who ran the orphanage or "home" as we called it, referred to themselves as The Ladies. So how are the ladies treating me, you ask? Let's just say they're not anymore. Thank Non-Existent God.

Since God had no part in their or our lives, The Ladies raised us with the belief that when a person dies, nothing happens, emptiness. So don't die. That's it. Just don't die. They created the now popular Don't Die System (DDS). DDS, as you all undoubtedly know, relies on a series of precautions that believers must take to prolong their lives as long as possible, with the hopes that someday, DDS followers won't ever die.

To say that we had to be careful in our daily activities is to say that Glenn Beck is just kinda kooky or the Detroit Lions are a mediocre team or that Kathy Bates is sort of interesting looking. Our uniforms consisted of full football pads and pillow-lined Ugg Boots. We went outside exactly two times a year. Once to smell the proverbial and actual flowers and once for "science time," where we licked our fingers, held them up to the wind and determined which way was North. Our forks had soft plastic tips, which made our dinners consist of jello and lemonade. Twelve orphans were executed for sneaking in and subsequently playing Hungry, Hungry Hippos. Exercise time was high fiving in mittens.

When I was 14, a couple came to visit our facility. I saw them through the cotton ball fence surrounding my bed and made eye contact with the woman. She smiled and came over to me. "How are you doing, little guy?" she asked. "Fine, I guess," I said. "Do you want to come home with me?" she said. "Yes, please," I replied.

My new parents were nothing like The Ladies. We went to church once a week, kept kosher, celebrated Easter and were allowed to use knives to cut our lemonade.

Keep Your Hands Dry. Always.

Last night I was at my comedy class and during our 10 minute break I went to the bathroom. Business was taken care of and I meandered over the the sink for my post-tinkle wash-up. I use only luke warm water when I cleanse my hands/soul.

See, I'm not much of a hot water kind of guy. I prefer ice water to Earl Grey. Frappucino to Macchiato. Anchorage to Guadalajara. Cryogenics to Cremation. I luke warmly washed my money makers and searched for the paper towel dispenser. No paper towel dispenser. I frantically darted my eyes from north to south, east to west and spotted a machine against the wall that was called a "Hot Air Electric Hand Dryer." The only thing I like less than hot water is wet hands.

I went eye to eye with the hand dryer not knowing what to say. Finally I caved and said, "OK, let's get dry, esse." I cracked my neck and my knuckles and carefully slipped my hands underneath the steel air blower hole. I was not prepared for the next sequence of events. The air came shooting out, true gangster style and it hurt me so bad. It was so damn hot. So. Damn. Hot. But seriously, I couldn't leave that bathroom with wet hands and I wasn't about to dampen my new Eddie Bauer polo. I shook my hands vigorously to remove as much excess water as possible and went back for try numero deux.

This time I had a plan. I was going to dry my hands in short bursts. One explosion at a time. I went in and put my hands underneath the dragon monster. The air started and after a second of awful heat, I removed them. My hands were no more dry than they were before my bathroom laboratory experiment. This would take days, if not years, to fully dry my precious finger holders. I was, as the French say, screwed.

I looked at the time and realized I had a minute before my class started up again and if there's one thing that I would place third in my "I the only thing I like less than..." list, it's being late. I began to panic. Here I was in a public bathroom with soaking wet hands, time ticking down and no escape in sight.

A frantic man must make frantic decisions. Keep that in mind, readers. I took a drink of cold water from the sink and started blowing. If I blew hard and fast enough, my hands would be relaxed and more importantly, dry. So I blew and I blew and I blew. I blew again. It worked.

I was late for the second half of class, but I was fine with that. I had conquered the beast. Copernicus once said, "He who overcomes obstacles with great intensity and cold breath in the bathroom is a man to not be reckoned with."

12 Hours in Munster, Indiana

My favorite part of the New York Times is getting great travel advice from their "36 Hours in..." series. For a reference, check out their article on Vancouver, BC. I decided to take a hint from their wildly popular series and create my own "12 Hours in..." series. Naturally, to get my feet wet, I decided to start with a city I'm familiar with - my hometown. Munster, Indiana is located a mere 31 miles from downtown Chicago and it's truly a booming, progressive town. It's no surprise that Munster is considered one of the most livable places north of Indianapolis and south of Chicago. I visited Munster on a Wednesday. So here goes nothing.

12 Hours in Munster, Indiana

Munster is known for many things, among them a great gyros restaurant, a tiny gloriously rundown donut place and of course, Community Hospital (in case you fall down or something.) Munster features one public high school, one public middle school and three public elementary schools. For the religious, Munster offers some private, God-inspired educational institutions as well. There's an art center for those who like to take a ride down culture lane and then there's the parking lot behind Taco Bell - a popular destination for teenagers on weekend evenings.

2:30 pm
I enter Munster at Exit 1 off of I-94E and drive down Calumet Ave, passing the Hammond Clinic and Canton House Restaurant, among other gems. On the corner of Ridge and Columbia, I come across Bieker Woods. Bieker Woods is known for a scary Halloween event annually. This area of town is considered the historic district, as there's an old school house and also another building. Rumor has it that an old lady lives there and yells at kids who pass through the woods to get from Wilbur Wright Middle School to Long John Silver's on a half day of school.

3:30pm
I decide to grab a bite at The Commander (745 Ridge Rd). The Commander has been a Munster landmark for decades. My grandfather would drive his Oldsmobile there daily for his "cigarettes and coffee." The Commander is known for it's lemon rice soup and club sandwiches. Get your shmooze on in front of the pie display while locals read "The Times" and discuss politics, Purdue football, and the newest prices at Munster Car Wash, conveniently located a few blocks down on Ridge Rd. Beware of the after school rush of 14-17 year olds wanting to get their fill of that oh-so-good soup.

5:00 pm
After a filling meal, I decide to head over to my mom's house to play with Scooby the dog and do some laundry. On my way to my childhood home, as I'm heading south on Columbia Ave, I pass Munster High School, or as the students call it, "school." I see the tennis team practicing on my right and the football team practicing on my left. The Munster Mustangs athletic department has a rich history of both success and failure. The swimming and tennis teams are usually pretty good, while the football and basketball teams are mediocre at best. But I honestly have no idea how any teams have done in the past 8 or 9 years.

7:30 pm
After sitting around the house with my mom and Scooby for a couple hours, we decide to grab some dinner. There are many choices. Do we pick Giovanni's (603 Ridge Rd) for fine Italian dining or head southwest to Three Floyd's Brew Pub (750 Indiana Parkway) for unique beers and pub food? My mom also suggests going to Charlie's Ale House, but Mom, we always go to Charlie's. OK, she says. We settle on Munster Gyros, which locals will tell you is the absolute best gyro spot on the planet. I couldn't disagree. We each order a Gyro Platter with one extra pita (one just isn't enough - my ONLY complaint about this place).

8:15 pm
We were tired after dinner, but we decided to hit the town in the spirit of this article. We head to Johnny's Tap (8050 Calumet Ave), where a neon sign outside reads, "Mr. Fun is Here." This dive bar has frosted mugs for your ridiculously cheap domestics. We found locals playing bar games like darts and Golden Tee. The jukebox blasts everything from Metallica to Brad Paisley to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. We decided not to talk to the other 6 patrons at Johnny's because, well, they'd been there all day.

9:30 pm
Our next stop was Munster Donut (8314 Calumet Ave), made famous by the Facebook Group - 'People Who Love Munster Donut.' We each order the donut-on-a-stick which features a happy face frosting smile. We sit at the counter with 2 of Munster's police force. I recognize one of them from the D.A.R.E. program in 5th grade.

10 pm
We head home - it's late.

My Conversation with the Solar Energy Guy

"Hi," he said, with a big wave of his arm. "Do you have a minute for solar energy?"
"Right now?" I asked
"Yep. I'm with Solar Energy Worldwide, a non profit that helps normal people like you succeed without the hassle and expense of electric energy."
"What makes you think I'm normal?"
"Oh, I meant nothing by that comment!" he said joyfully.
"Go on," I said.
"So we are committed to making to the Earth a safer and better place by expanding knowledge and use of solar energy. Do you currently use solar power?"
"I have a calculator that does, but nothing else."
"Very good! That's a great start."
"Thanks."
"No problem! What's your name?"
"What does that have to do with solar power?" I was confused.
"Nothing, technically, but I'm just trying to build a relationship with you."
"Are you hitting on me?" I said excitedly.
"No, I'm trying to inform you about the benefits of solar energy."
"Alright. So how much for a snickers?" I was hungry.
"What? I'm not selling snickers." He was confused.
"But I thought you said you were talking about solar power."
"I am. Did you know that the average household can save over 1oo dollars a month by making one simple switch?" He asked.
"Yes. I knew that. My house is powered by solar power. So is my calculator," I said all snarky-like.
"Interesting. So you were lying earlier about using solar power?" He was confused again.
"Yep. I'm a liar and a solar power user. Me and Al Gore."
"Al Gore is a genius. Not a liar. Don't even start," He said.
"What's your name?" I replied
"Al Gore."

Facebook's Slippery Slope

There's a new trend in the interweb/cyberspace/intranet/online community. It's devastating. It's ruining my online experience, and probably yours. It's when people change their names on Facebook to their first name and middle name. Abraham Zoltan Lincoln turns into Abraham Zoltan. Susan Princess Sontag turns into Susan Princess. It's happening now and it's happening fast. Every day another FB user loses a piece of their identity.

This poses one giant, massive question: Who the hell do you think you are? What are you afraid of? Newsflash hotshot! Your friends are still your friends whether you eliminate your last name or not. They can still see your pictures, your Farmville chaos and your Perez Hilton fan page. Ok, ok, you don't want people to be able to search for you. Well then how do you expect to network? How do you expect to spy on new people? Eventually your stoner friends from high school are going to slip into oblivion. You need to expand. You need to exist. What's the next move? Changing your birth certificate? Legalizing gay marriage? It's a slippery slope, people.

Looking for a Job in Chicago

So my girlfriend and I are thinking about getting a cat. We're also thinking about getting jobs. Last night I had a few hours to do nothing. I did it well. I watched The Office wedding and I searched for cats online. There's a website - petfinder.com that lets you type in your zip code and they show all the cats/dogs/reptiles/bonsai trees that have been rescued within a 20 mile radius of your house. I spent a good two hours perusing the cats - from Aristotle to Zeus (and other ridiculous pet names).

This got me thinking - why is it easier to find an abandoned, malnourished cat in Chicago than a job? Is this economy so bad that there are more cats than jobs in a major metropolitan city? I thought cats live on farms. I was wrong. Got me again, Mayor Daley! First you let me down on the Olympics and now you flood our streets with cats, most of which have silly names.

So for all you unemployed people in the world, get a cat, not a job. It will provide you with warmth, comfort, companionship and as a bonus, it won't be hard to find one. But if you do end up wanting a job - don't look in Chicago. Try another place where there are no cats - like Farmville, Iowa or Middle of Nowhere, Kansas.

The Playlist of my Awkward Years

I'm making a playlist of all the songs I loved during my awkward years. It's really bringing back a lot of memories. Allow me to share.

1) Bush - Machinehead. I'm sitting in my bedroom getting pumped for my bar mitzvah. I have it blasting as I'm putting my new suit on. My sister walks in and yells over the music, "You're gonna be a man!"

2) Rush - Tom Sawyer. 6th grade sitting in the cafeteria listening to this song on my headphones thinking I'm so cool. I know nothing about the band, except that the drummer is awesome. This girl I had a crush on comes up to me and I act way too cool for her. I'm listening to Rush, leave me alone. She never talks to me again.

3) Third Eye Blind - Semi-Charmed Life. 7th grade social studies. I know this song by heart and I make sure everyone at Wilbur Wright Middle School knows this. I'm so freaking awesome - sitting in my desk singing the song at the top of my lungs. Mr. Colias gives me detention. I don't care, I'm singing about cocaine. Mr. Colias is so dorky, but detention sucks.

4) Dave Matthews Band - Let You Down. Trying to woo girls by singing the words "I have no lid upon my head, but if I did, you could look inside and see what's on my mind." It kind of worked. Only because everyone liked Dave Matthews. Some hot girl told me my Adidas gym pants were cool. They were cool.

5) Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers - American Girl. Going into my older brother's room while he was out of the house and memorizing all the band members of the Heartbreakers and then bringing them up on the way to school the next day so he would think I was cool. He didn't think I was cool. He thought I was AWESOME.

6) Aeroplane - Red Hot Chili Peppers. Wishing I could be one of the kids singing back up on the track.

7) Sophie B. Hawkins - As I Lay Me Down. My friends thought I was lame. I guess I was.

That's what I have so far. I'm going to keep working on it. Wish me luck.

Wazzup Xerox?

Wazzup Xerox? That's what the maintenance guy at my apartment building says to me all the time. Whenever I see him, maybe 3 or 4 times a week, it's "Wazzup Xerox?" I'm a nice, considerate guy so I never talk back. I just drop my head and say, "Hi, Boris." That was until yesterday.

Boris had to come up to my apartment to fix my oven and he walked in and obviously said, "Wazzup Xerox?" Instead of saying "Hi Boris," I said, "Boris, can I ask you something? Why do you call me Xerox?" This followed...

Boris: Your name iz not Xerox?
Me: No, it's Gabe
Boris: I likez Xerox better. You look like a Xerox.
Me: Like a photocopy?
Boris: No, like my nephew Xerox. He livez in St. Petersburg.
Me: How old is he?
Boris: Seven.
Me: I look like a seven year old?
Boris: No, Xerox lookz like he'z 25.
Me: Can I make up a nickname for you?
Boris Yez, of courz.
Me: How about BrontoBoris. Like the dinosaur.
Boris: Do I look likez a dinozaur?
Me: No, it's a play on words.
Boris: I hate dinosaurz. They are scary and ugly.
Me: I didn't mean anything by it.
Boris: You aren't Xerox anymore. You are azzhole.

Now Boris says, "Wazzup azzhole?" And I say, "not much."

Famous like Mitch Hedberg

There is a small group of people in the world that can best be categorized as a group that people say they like because its cool to like them. OK that explanation was a bit convoluted. I'll try again. So there's a group of people that are cool in society - like Johnny Depp and Steven Tyler. Then there is a group of people that people think they should think are cool in society -like Mitch Hedberg. It's the second group that interests me. The Mitch Hedberg group.

This can be confusing, so stay with me. When someone says, "God, I just LOVE Mitch Hedberg," 90% of the time they are really saying, "I've HEARD of Mitch Hedberg and people will think it's cool if I say I love him." Mitch Hedberg, now dead, didn't really have to do much to be loved because 9 out of 10 people who "love" him have never heard any of his jokes or looked at his ridiculous haircut. (This, of course, is unscientific. What do you think I am, a scientist?)

So what am I getting at? I want to be Mitch Hedberg. Wait. No I don't. I want to be famous like Mitch Hedberg. I want people who have barely even heard of me say, "God I just LOVE that guy." I want 14 year old girls to have posters of me on their wall without even knowing my middle name. I want my records to go platinum with the help of people who will never listen to it. I want my movie to be #1 at the box office and people to walk away saying, "Why do I tell people I love that guy?" and then still tell people they love me, you know, to be cool.

Where the Urinal Cakes Smell like Trees

Every man has been there. Standing at the urinal surrounded on either side by other men peeing. No matter what your sexuality, what your color, where you are from, there's always the "OMG this is awfully awkward and horrifying." Every guy will tell you the first thing he does when walking into a public bathroom is see whether or not there's a urinal with two empty spots next to it. If so, they will make a bee-line to that spot. If not, they will meander slowly over, hoping that the fellow washroom users will finish their business by the time they wander over.

Anyway, back to the point. It's awkward. There's the feeling that the other person is looking at you. There's the feeling that you are peeing too loudly. There's the feeling that you're peeing too softly. There's the feeling that if you slip and fall maybe you pee on the other guy's feet. There are a lot of feelings. For example (there's ALWAYS an example!), I was at the symphony orchestra last night and I had to use the facilities. I walked into the room marked "Men," and I obviously checked to see if there was a urinal with the vacant adjoining spots. No dice. I checked my blackberry, looked in the mirror, tied my shoes, adjusted my belt, coughed a few times, pretended to look for my contact lens - all in the hopes that the people would leave so I could do my thing in peace. Again, no dice.

I walked up to the urinal and gave the kindly fellow next to me a quick glance and a grin. Not too friendly, not too mean, just enough to let him know that I was cool. I wasn't going to pull any fast ones on him. I was standing there with my fly down hoping to the good lord that it would be smooth sailing. The man (who by this time had been peeing for well over 2 minutes) did a little shake, zipped up his pants and flushed. He walked away but suddenly turned around and said, "I like your shoes."

What the hell? What did he mean? Were shoes a metaphor for my urinal style? Did he like my stance? My flow? Or really did he just like my shoes? I couldn't answer him. I couldn't pee anymore. I just stood there with my eyes closed hoping that when I opened them he was gone. I opened my eyes, my fly was down, my stream was halted. I turned my head and he was no longer there.

The urinal is nature's way of telling me to pee in the woods, where no one is watching you. Where nobody likes your shoes. Where the urinal cakes smell like trees.

My Interview with Beyonce

I recently had the rare opportunity to interview Beyonce Knowles. This was a dream come true. Here's the conversation:

Me: This is an honor, Beyonce. Thanks for taking the time.
BK: It's no problem at all.
Me: How do you handle the pressure of being such a mega star?
BK: I just take it day by day. I have the love and support of so many friends and family members.
Me: You have my support, that's for sure. I will always support you, Beyonce. ALWAYS. No matter what. Even if you break your leg and can't perform anymore. Or get fat.
BK: Uh...thank you.
Me: You're welcome. I have listened to "Halo" about 10 times a day for the past month. I love that song.
BK: Thank you very much, it's a song I'm very proud of.
Me: Did you write that song about me?
BK: I just met you for the first time, so no.
Me: Well then why did you put my name in the song?
BK: I didn't. What are you talking about?
Me: You performed for Barack and Michelle. What was that like? Did the president put any moves on you?
BK: Um no. They were very friendly. I feel so blessed that I was able to do that.
Me: Come on, Barack tried to get you to come back to the White House. That doggie!
BK: No he didn't.
Me: If the president asked you on a date, would you say yes?
BK: That is not going to happen.
Me: If I asked you on a date, would you say yes?
BK: No.
Me: Well that's all the time we have. Perhaps we can meet up again sometime soon.
BK: I seriously doubt it.
Me: You never know.
BK: Yes I do.

My First Ballet Class

I'm back. Where'd I go? I was on a month long vacation with Angelina Jolie and her 7 dwarfs. I was trying out for the Harlem Globetrotters. I was on a drinking binge with Lindsay Lohan. That's where I was, ok?

So my girlfriend and I took a ballet class. We thought we should up our grooviness. Note to my readers: if you're trying to up your grooviness, don't go to a ballet class. The instructor was a 70 year old woman who clearly used to be a good dancer but now every time she does the Macarena her back goes out. Every time she attempts the Mambo #5 a little pee comes out.

There were about 30 of us - 15 couples. We were an eclectic bunch - varying ages, varying ethnicities, varying sexes, varying body types. The couple to our left didn't speak a word of English. When the instructor lady said, "now first position!" the couple would break into the Moonwalk and yell, "Mickey Yakjon!" When she would say, "second position!" the couple would make out gratuitously. It was hot.

I was so distracted by these two that I learned nothing. I'm moving to Greece or Iraq or wherever they were from. Ballet seems way more interesting over there.