HBO's "Friends"

I admit it. I watched "Friends" on NBC when it first started, when it came on after the beloved "Seinfeld." I watched it for a few more seasons for the simple reason that Jennifer Aniston had hard nipples in every show, and Courtney Cox was coming off of looking hot in "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective." Every show though, Jennifer Aniston, poking out, I shit you not. I knew the show was bad, predictable, unfunny, formulaic, etc. Now comes the 21st century version of "Friends,"

"Entourage" on HBO. "HBO presents Entourage, the hit comedy series executive produced by Mark Wahlberg that takes a look at the day-to-day life of Vincent (Vince) Chase, a hot young actor in modern-day Hollywood, and his entourage."

First red flag, "executive produced by Mark Wahlberg." I still can't wrap my brain around the fact that Marky Mark turned "Good Vibrations" into a career. Granted, he's great in "Boogie Nights," "I Heart Huckabees," and "The Departed," yet he epitomizes the puppet-puppeteer relationship between actor and creator. This guy would walk into a wall if you asked him to. So how the fuck does he get to the position of executive producer? Are the executives at HBO so queer that they agreed to whatever came out of this guy's mouth because they were too busy fantasizing about him cumming into theirs?

This is the Maxim magazine of tv shows. Low brow content, feeding off the male desire to drive fast cars and bang hot chicks. Hey, I'm not complaining about the ladies in the show, but I can't accept the characters of the show, let alone the actors who play these underdeveloped zombies getting these girls. Vince, ha! (Adrian Grenier--of Britney video-fame, pre-world realizing she's Louisiana trash) The Ross of the show, getting girls way out of his league, permanent five o'clock shadow, uninteresting, no charisma, obviously no talent as an actor--it was like a bad Jim Henson make-up job watching him as Pablo Escobar. Turtle is the least annoying character--except for his ridiculous Yankee-inspired outfits. Turtle epitomizes the bastardization of athletic gear: hot shoes, jerseys and hats-being produced for fat fucks who couldn't play a lick of anything and taking the fun and excitement away from those who could actually do something on a diamond, court or field. But he smokes weed, thus the least annoying character. Next we have Johnny Drama-- the Joey character, obnoxious and always putting his foot in his mouth, a "never was" dependent on name-dropping 80's to 90's references for those late 20-30 somethings to connect with. A perennial B-lister, Matt Dillon's brother.

And then there's Eric, or "E." He deserves his own paragraph. What a worthless fuck of a crap dispenser. How could anyone take this fucking guy seriously? Was it his contagious banter with BobCat Goldthwait as a stuffed animal on the "Married With Children" ripoff "Unhappily Ever After" (Scott Baio directed-mind you) that led these HBO producers to land on this gem of a ginger? Am I the only person who remembers how fucking retarded that show was? And how marginal Kevin Connelly was in it? Collateral damage from a great pair of tits on television (i.e. Nikki Cox). How many actors ride on the coat tails of tits? For those interested in answering this question, please comment. This Napoleonic prick is the lead? And they've been forcing these relationship scenarios down our throat since day 1. We didn't care about the first whore--if anything we wanted gratuitous orgies. Who knows who came next. But Sloan--WAY out of this fuckin' guy's league. Yeah, she's short, he's short, maybe they have a connection THERE, but where else. Emmanuelle Chriqui: sounds like the real life person all those skinflicks on Cinemax were based off of. Except that on SKINEMAX, you could count on breasts being bared. HBO's "Friends," you get plenty of side boob and nipple coverage. Is this why we pay $15 extra a month, to be deprived of the very same thing that basic cable deprives us of? Yeah they may throw a stripper or two in there just to get our areola fix for the evening, but like Maxim, the caliber of female is there (granted the airbrushing in both arenas is ridiculous) but the execution falls short and right on line with Michael Bay's swear em up shoot em up keep em covered mentality. Tangential yes, but consistent with my point.

And then there's Jeremy Piven, who's exploded as an asshole playing an asshole being an asshole. Wow, what a niche. Can we please not forget Jeremy Piven playing the Costanza character in the Seinfeld in-show pilot. He was great as a neurotic, nervous balding New Yorker, and more believable than the fast-talking-never-take-no-for-an-answer agent officianado he plays here. And "PCU," the asshole was there but so was George Clinton, and PFUNK trumps all. Not to mention his wife is unbelievably hot, maybe not the face (for those Hebrew speakers we'd call her a Coosit), but goddamn! that body is bangin'--and we'll never see her w/o clothing. And even for television, I'm just not buying it. Debbie Mazar, best known as the coked-out mistress to Henry Hill in "Goodfellas" as Vince's publicist? I think precedence matters in this case.

And those are just the characters. The stories are more or less nonexistent, drawn out into 25 minute vignettes that always lead back to point A. There is no real conflict or change in mood or function of these people. They give what they expect us to want, not taking us out of our comfort zone. And I probably wouldn't be so outraged by the mediocrity of this show were it not for corpulent co-headliners such as "Big Love" or even "John From Cincinnati"--I can't get enough of those now-famous David Milch soliloquies. Those shows are so character and content heavy that it's difficult to absorb all that's happened in fity minute episodes. With "Entourage" you can sum up a story in one sentence. And I might rewatch an episode because of a gorgeous girl, but usually don't because I become so frustrated by recycled story lines and joke-free airtime, I usually just watch an "Arrested Development" episode for the 50th time. And yet this monstrosity of a show falls under my list of shows for which I watch for one reason: gorgeous women: O.C. and Mischa, Dawson's Creek and Katie, even Grey'S Anatomy and Katherine--bringing me back to the original horrible show with hot lady, "Saved By The Bell" and young Tiffani Amber Thiessen. And so I upend my own point when I say, it doesn't matter what the show is, I just want to see a beautiful girl, with a beautiful face, and minimal male talking. Is that really that difficult?

Even "30 Rock" the best all around television show on air since "Arrested" ended knows the formula, and Seinfeld brought in slews of women on a weekly basis.

But why those shows worked would take a much longer post, and for now, I'm pooped off the poop.

Dumb is the new Smart

Grey is the new Black. Orange was the new Pink. But that died. So I say next on the agenda is Dumb being the new Smart. I mean, so many people think they’re smart and they’re obviously not. Is being informed smart? Or well-read? We learned to read when we were FOUR, it’s not like surfing—something really hard. And that’s where shit gets confusing. Look at surfers and their perceived image of being bleach-brained, know-nothings. Learn the ocean, I say to that. Learn an ever-evolving, living entity.
I know my logic is rather flawed. I know the material on the page is the meat and potatoes, but it’s a good question: Does educated mean smart? Street smart vs. book smart has been argued forever. It’s a boring argument because it’s conditional. I’m talking bona fide smart=science. Taking four dimensional ideas in a 3-D world, that’s impressive. Like my main man John Weir, the genius. I can read some books and spout off some facts and paint a straight line and strum a guitar but I cannot take physical and chemical and biological and mathematical equations and put them in a blender and come out with a revolution—I know that doesn’t make sense, I’m dumb remember. But I can spell, and form coherent sentences, most of the time. And does that make me intelligent. I’m trained well. Do I have a better capacity for training than say the boy who grew up in a smoggy, congested environment like New York City to my open, fresh-aired San Diego? All I can see it proving is that pollution does not affect the brain, it only increases physical inferiority. That doesn’t make any sense either. Is self-reflection a condition of intelligence? What part does knowing people play in being smart? Freud, Pavlov . . . couldn’t think of another example.
And so I say bring on the dimwittedness. Hell, can you really believe everything you read in the papers, or on the internet? Is knowing the new blah blah film or the blah blah album that great anyway? We’re all just moving on to the new fad. What about chipping away and exploring that which has existed, trying to decipher new understandings of such everlasting creatures such as the ocean or the human brain. I’m rambling, dumb remember—I’m having trouble escaping the urge to fill the page with mindless obscenities. And so I will discontinue my ramblings for some rest.

Pathetic

I didn't realize it'd been four months since my last entry. I apologize. I wish I could say I was busy saving the world. I only saved an ant colony from a family of tarantulas while milking a cancerous bovine which happened to be pregnant with my sister's baby--they couldn't find another surrogate. So I'm sorry and will try extremely hard to get a weekly post out, no matter how inane and nonsensical.

MNMC

Crazy with an F

I got into an argument with a property-hindered gentleman this afternoon. I told him that tying your shoe laces is for conformist racists who secretly desire to be bathed in skippy peanut butter. He agreed with me until the peanut butter part. He told me Peter Pan was the best to bathe in. I slapped him. Skippy, Peter Pan? Seriously, everyone knows the only way to bathe is with JIF, crunchy specifically. He pulled out a pen he'd filed down and lit on fire to burn to a point and poked at my direction. He told me his name was John Roberts. I slapped him again. The homemade pointer fell to the ground and rolled in s shapes down the slight incline connecting cement and asphalt. As he reached down to grab for it, I kicked him in the chode. He focused more on laughter over balance and slammed his head into the door of a parked car. The door reflected the man's grin, dirt and all. He grabbed his pointer and rose to his feet, putting his pointer back in the pocket protector holding other homeless-made items: a syringe, a Barbie doll made of Play-Doh (though this Barbie was anatomically correct), eye glasses made of paper clips, and swim goggles, stitched together from used condoms. You know, the usual. He told me that dogs usually whore themselves out after 9 p.m. but like to come home and help cook dinner for orphaned children. He brushed his shoulders off, put his eye glasses on, and turned around and walked away. I asked where he was going, and he told me he had to give a speech on impotence and necrophilia. I turned to walk the other way for a few steps before being hit in the back by a bruised, partly eaten D battery. I turned back 180 degrees and the man was gone, though I could hear his cackle for a moment.

Mike Miner likes to think about me naked

For the three of you who look at my blog, talk to mike miner about his infatuation with my naked, teenage body, or what he imagines my body looks like. i'm bigger than that, folded in half, behind my back. so to mr. miner, if you want to see me naked, and you know you do, send $35.00 to gofuckyourself.com. It's really a shame this is how Mike chooses to come out of the closet.

MJ All the time please

Where are my full Chicago Bulls seasons, years 84-93, and 96-98? All 82 games, plus the playoffs and all star games. Who are we kidding? Every ANAL yst wants to proclaim Lebron James or Kobe Bryant to the throne of MJ, but watch his games, not the ten second clip run on repeat every time MJ is mentioned. I know of at least a handful of people who would buy complete seasons of Michael Jordan playing basketball, and they're not even Bulls fans. He was amazing. Night in, night out. How many times do you, does anybody say, man I can't wait to watch that Grizzlies game and see Big Country get housed. Parked in front of the couch for Hawks and Clippers games, watching scrubs (they're all scrubs against MJ) like Ron Harper and Stacey Augmon try to man up on THE man. He wanted the other team to have to look themselves in the mirror after a defeat and say, "My best wasn't even close to good enough." How do you not want to watch that for a minimum 97 games (only had to watch 5 games in the first round of the playoffs back then)? And I'm not just talking that one year of 72 victories. That year was boring, except for the shoes. The best Jordans ever. He was passing and lobbying for Scottie to win MVP, but we all know who ran the show. And so did Scottie. He wasn't throwing fits when the Man was around was he?

Now the only other person who reminds me of watching Jordan is Dwayne Wade. It's beautiful. I was going to watch a horrendous Knicks game just to watch Dwayne Wade play (About the Knicks: I swear I remember in basketball practice doing drills where we had to run offense and make a minimum of 10 passes before shooting the ball and if we didn’t, we ran. I think I-hate-yah Thomas runs drills where more than one pass is cause for sprints. Douche chill). I digress. Wade didn't play that night. I had to turn away. But seriously, I’ve never seen anybody pull shots out of his ass more similarly to Mike than Wade. Kobe doesn’t get the air time. Lebron is too tall and doesn’t get the air time. Wade, he glides baby. Smoother than silk, and whoop, a nick, and bam behind the shoulder left handed off the wrong foot. Bank. No rim. The best thing he learned from Jordan, we all learned from Yoda and Kaiser Sose. He’ll get up from a fall and ever so gingerly walk back to the line, sink his throws, play some D, grab a ‘bound and then do that misdirection spin move fade away as if he’s taking his empty cereal bowl to the kitchen sink. You’re a sucker if you think he’s really hurt.

D Wade’s got no problem giving credit to the MAN. He’d watch 82. Everyone in the league is around 6 years within my age, and those who are older know even better what it was like to watch him play, to be amazed. It was a continuous rebirth for us Generation Jordaners. Like mimicking Kareem with the sky hook, we’ve all got our bastardized version of the fade away.

“Sometimes I dream
That he is me
You've got to see that's how I dream to be
I dream I move, I dream I groove
Like Mike
If I could Be Like Mike
Again I try
Just need to fly
For just one day if I could
Be that way
I dream I move
I dream I groove
Like Mike
If I could Be Like Mike”

I bet 90% of the league could quote that song, verbatim.

Just show reruns of old Sportscenters too, when they showed MJ highlights first, and then talked hockey and then showed highlights of EVERY game that night and we didn’t have to watch Sean Salsbury’s slack-jawed flapper for 45 minutes of a 49 minute show. Who’s he schtupping to get that much airtime? Seriously.


It’s not that hard. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. They don’t have to cut anything. I’ll even fast forward through the commercials, or have a Jordan channel on the television and keep the commercials. I bet a good percentage of those crappy advertisements are identical to the crappy advertisements now. 82 games times 12 years, hell add the baseball fiasco and the Wizards fiasco, times the two and a half hours per game = a minimum 2460 hours of programming. Loop that year round until the apocalypse and it’ll be in the top 20 channels, period. Now don’t go stealing my idea.

I mean it. It might just be dumb enough to work.

aaaah, life

things just don't seem so bad when you get to see a middle aged Hispanic man, in a white, fairly recent model minivan, idling at a stop-light, whoop at a vaguely young Hispanic woman passing by. he's still got it, and apparently, she's got it.

It's a Boy

Like my sister in law, I have given birth. I as well became pregnant in March, though mine was more premeditated, I think. It was a long pregnancy—very overdue, late nights, kicking, stomach cramps, mood swings but it was worth it in the end to see my 8 ½ “ x 11 ½” treasure. I can’t believe it exists. My script.

MIke Miner We Hardly Knew Ya

First, an extension of gratitude toward the entire Thate family for inviting me to New Jersey for a holiday party and allowing me to bring along my slack-jawed, herpetic^ compadres. Then, I must discuss the events that led up to an evening in New Jersey. Mr. Miner, a.k.a. Mike, a.k.a. Mr. Lucky 24/7, a.k.a. The Boss (maybe that’s sacrilege in Jersey, but Bruce Springsteen never met Mike Miner) came to New York at a mere half past 5 in the a.m. on Saturday morning. He arrived in our neck of the woods, Brooklyn, around 8 a.m. after an atrociously long journey from JFK. After sleeping off the night before for my roommate Colter and I, and Mike his red-eye flight, we began the day at 2 p.m. at White Castle. We had mentioned to Mr. Miner in a telephone conversation previously that we resided near the infamous food-bag and demanded we sojourn there while he was here. Nobody says no to Mike Miner.
For those who’ve never been, and I was one of these people prior to this fateful day, White Castle specializes in tiny, bite-sized thin hamburgers with onions. The burgers in the pictures, unlike McDonald’s, did not look appetizing, nor did the cooking area consisting of a flat fryer bordered by discarded, discolored sliced-up onions. I ignored my instincts to run like hell in favor of the will of Mike and ordered two double cheeseburgers, coke and an order of onion rings—I asked for no onions on the burgers but received them anyways. I ordered first and got my food first, but upon retrieval, my disgust told me that nothing was going to get prettier so I might as well close my eyes and eat. There was little catsup and so I was forced to savor the flavor White Castle had to offer. I am sure that the onion rings were merely onion flavored breading molded into a ring. The soggy burger buns kissed my tongue as I imagine a sponge might and the patty fortunately was too thin to even taste. The patty, by the way, had to be a slice of ham I assume because of the way the White Castle employee slapped each slice onto the fryer, making it look like a rolled out pig.
Halfway through my first burger and it wasn’t the over-consumption of alcohol the previous evening that was making me nauseous; no, it was the combination of both Colter’s and my own self-loathing for eating this and Miner’s joy in consuming the same sloppy shit. To be fair to Mike, he knew quality and White Castle were polarized, yet he relished in our disgust, as most of us have known him to do. And we made all gone and departed, never to return again, save another Mike Miner visit, which we regrettably agreed to inhabit each time Mr. Miner comes to visit.
Mike and I attempted to mask White Castle’s lingering effects with beer, Yeungling to be exact, but with each flatulent call, we relived each bite. A few beers and a few hours passed and we were ready for a slice of pizza and an adventure into New Jersey. On our journey to pizza we stopped at the Spirit shop and Mike, the gentleman he is, acquired three flasks of Jagermeister. After pizza we added our friend Owen to the mix and we were off to New York Port Authority (side: I will try to include the New York Port Authority into my everyday life). We were contemplating taking a ferry over to the other side of the Hudson but instead chose in favor of the ten-minute bus-ride through the tunnel, which I now know to be the Lincoln Tunnel. On the bus we exchanged alcohols around, unsure of the adventure we were about to embark upon. We arrived at a nondescript bus stop, a hundred yards from the ferry port, Port Imperial, and about three or four hundred yards from any other form of civilization. The backdrop to the port was a picturesque view of Manhattan, the kind of panoramic shot seen at mall picture-framing stores. Mike attempted to take a group photo while the three of us pounded our respective flasks. Ask him, they were shit.
We were lost though, and only the youngest Thate, Ally, could save us. And save us she did. Each of us a little tipsy, we were greeted in an Infiniti SUV, by this svelte, poofy-haired blonde, too short to reach the pedals adequately. She assured us that the residence where we were going to be “partying” was close. We never worried in the hands of young Ally. Upon arrival, we stood out as the vagabonds of the party. Unbeknownst to me, this was a rather formal gathering of friends, family and coworkers and Mike, Colter, Owen and I arrived in t-shirts and jeans to the partygoers’ gowns, slacks and button-down dress shirts. Not to mention it was a beautiful three-story apartment. We got everyone’s attention to say the least, but we ignored the gazers and dodged the kitchen island for the plethora of alcohol bottles conspicuously hidden in the corner. There was a lovely young girl, who will remain unnamed, in a slit, black cocktail gown juxtaposing fake tanning with fake French-manicured fingernails. The beautiful hoarse voice of Jersey, and a lip smack here and there, she actually stood out.
Mike, Colter and Owen decided to engage in conversation with the oldest looking, and surprisingly oldest--my assumption—lady at the party.* My first interaction with her came at the kitchen sink. I was obtaining ice to freshen my beverage, when aforementioned lady—I could use gratuitous vulgarities but that would be just mean—aforementioned lady, stole my ice filled glass and dumped it into her glass. I protested but she only said, “Yeah, I’m taking your ice, and I’m smarter than you.” It was most likely the alcohol prohibiting me from thinking of a clever comeback, but I didn’t respond verbally, I just looked at her, eventually thinking, “What kind of person says that?” I walked away, I didn’t even care to find out.
Only, I did find out. I eventually, through my friends’ reiteration of her tales, found her to be a chemist with multiple degrees. And we all decided, my friends and I, she was smarter than I’ll ever be. But I doubt I’ll ever be a 42-year-old saggy everything single gal living in New Jersey. Who the hell am I to judge though? I’m an idiot remember.
Shortly after that we decided to leave second class New York for first class New York. Only the trek home was much more daunting than we expected. The younger Thate having disappeared, we turned to the eldest, Taylor, for help. The family lived in the opposite end of the complex in the condominiums, which had an immaculate view of the city. I don’t get no view in Brooklyn. We were greeted by the man of the house, Mr. Thate, my high school basketball coach. He sat on the couch, in the dark, a glass of wine in his hand, watching a definite Coach Thate movie, Pirates of the Caribbean. He loves that shit. He wasn’t waiting up for his daughters to come home, he was watching a movie, relaxing, and we had to go and fuck it up and intrude with our whispered yelling, talking basketball, partying, and some more basketball. He graciously went to bed and,officially, I sent my basketball coach to bed. What is the world coming to? Every time I see that man, I feel like I should stand on the baseline and run, just run ‘til I can’t runs no mores.
Taylor called us a car. We didn’t ask what it’d cost. We bid farewell and thanked Taylor for her hospitality. We met the car and were off back to New York. We got in the car, a haggard bunch, and asked the driver, in Spanish, how much the ride would cost. He told us $36 plus $6 for the tunnel toll. We were outraged, having paid a mere $3.20 a piece to cross into Jersey. We told him we wouldn’t pay, again in Spanish, I think. We had driven half a mile or so and the driver decided that if we weren’t going to pay, we were going to start from point A and he drove us back to the complex we originally came from. It was a kick in the pants. But we didn’t care; we’d find someone else, no problem. We had spirits to get us through. We began to wander toward the tunnel, only very few cars came or went, and none of them were taxis. What had I gotten everybody into? We were an adult, deranged version of “Stand By Me” only there was no dead body and we were too inebriated to even think about walking on train tracks. But there were train tracks, taunting us, giving us hope that in our path a train would swoop us in and save us from the aquatic enhanced cold air. It never came, and so we walked. Some say it was twenty minutes, some say it was two hours. We’ll never really know.
A taxi finally came and we were ready to sell our bodies to cross into New York. Instead we ended up paying $32, flat.* A hell of a deal for a bunch of burgeoning prostitutes. Colter would have gone first and he knows it. We sent the taxi to our friend Rob’s, who was living in, owen knows, I have no idea, what part of the city. Rob was out of town and we were checkin’ the place out. Within minutes of being there, with the kitchen light acting as a spotlight, we dropped the last remaining flask, spilling a bit on the counter and decided we didn’t want to disrupt anything more. And so, we went to find alcohol. Only we didn’t need it. (Sorry mom, sorry dad—if you read this, I didn’t spend a dime)
We tried 7-11, and left with only a beef roll purchased by Mr. Miner for Owen, intended for a defiant Colter. Mr. Miner purchased, for himself, a set of taquitos. No alcohol. I had nothing, although in mischievous fashion, as Mr. Miner was finishing his taquito, I slapped it out of his hand. To which he responded, “I don’t care” picked it up off the New York concrete, and finished the Mexican delicacy. Attempting to finish his second piece, I again slapped it out of his hand and laughed. My laughter=the beginning of my demise. Mr. Miner proceeded to pick up the taquito and slap it into my face, smearing it all over. The collateral damage; my jacket stained, reeking of artificial beef for days to come. Mr. Miner likes to leave mysteries of nostalgia for his friends. He must get it from his friends. Ask Mike about the fish that lingered inside his own car for days, and ask who the culprit is. His first name starts with a C and he is mentioned in this story.
Shits and giggles aside, alas we found a bar. Moments passed and Mike disappeared, only to return with hot dogs and a pitcher of beer, at the very moment Owen was tipping the bartender for the pitcher of beer he just purchased. Colter doesn’t drink beer, and so Mike demanded he take a shot of the strongest proofed liquor in the building. None of us could tell you what the liquor was, but I can assure you Colter did not take the shot. Neither did I. And Owen decided it was time to put himself to bed and bid us adieu, and so Mr. Miner was left to the shot. He pleaded, we pleaded for Colter to take it, and our torturous peer pressure should have led to two black eyes on two different people, but instead Mike, the man that he is, drank the miniature glass of lighter fluid. He then slapped me. In the face. Like a woman who catches her man cheating. The bouncer didn’t think the slap was as hilarious as Mike and I did. “I don’t care if you guys are friends, that’s how fights break out.” I think the bouncer just needed to adjust his crotch and needed an excuse to get off his fat ass. We adhered but now it was time for the bar to close. And we had two pitchers of beer to drink. We’re 21st Century men, we care about our resources and so we couldn’t well let those drinks go. There are children in Africa who are thirsty.
I believe that is where the evening ended for dear Mr. Miner and myself. Only Colter can recall the events after the bar, and he has the footage to prove it. If you find Mr. Miner on myspace.com, we can see that Colter posted some footage of a wrestling match obviously dominated by The Great Mike Miner. Pathetic and out of shape, with blood shot eyes, I sit in a headlock, defeated, and not for the last time. For in the life of Joel Michael Miner, failure is an illusion. Hail Hail Hail! Thank you Colter for not being a lush and making sure we returned home
And then, like a puff of smoke, he was gone by 4 p.m. Sunday. And so I beg and plead, a petition will be administered to the world, come back Mr. Miner. We need you here, now, and forever!

^sources unvarified
*specificity is wary due to consumption levels

Jersey Trip #1

Oh my God I'm in New Fucking Jersey! Let me preface something before I begin, even though it has little to do with this particular entry, everyone I've ever met from the trash state is like every Canadian I’ve ever met: Anything and everything that comes from their respective homes is great, even though it's usually not: Jon Bon Jovi, “Garden State,” Barenaked Ladies, Rush, to name a few. Any who, my point is, if they think things that suck are great, then logically if they think they're great than they actually suck. Suck is an infantile and generic word, but it fits here.
First of all, there's nothing like the sound of Jersey hoarseness. A strained speech pattern genetically passed from parent to child and heading for lung cancer. Again, I digress. I took the bus, New York Port Authority, God Bless 'Em. I was given an incorrect gate number on the phone, but after fifteen minutes of panicked wandering, I was directed toward the right gate. Automated ticket retrieval and up on an escalator to a narrow, glass-enclosed structure. Effortless really, all those years of waiting in lines at Disneyland and the movie theaters, we humans are trained slightly better than animals. Speaking of animals, an older man, maybe 60, although most people look twenty years older than they are out here, was wearing a delectable piece of fur on his head. Dark, greasy, slicked almost, I must applaud in disappointment at gentlemen who feel the need to cover their balding heads with somebody else's hair. Be like me, shave it all off in shame. Or wear a yarmulke. Either way, that extra unnatural monstrosity on your head draws shame to your obvious shame at being genetically defective. Or just go kill yourself cuz we got a population problem anyway. Sorry, thinkin’ Jersey has got me talkin’ Jersey.
Once the bus got moving I was disoriented to say the least. Spinning in circles and into a tunnel within minutes of departure, I thought about the possibilities of car accidents in the tiled tube. Ridiculous accidents, five to ten car pile-ups, ripping through the tunnel walls with water flooding everything. It played out in my head like a movie. And before I knew it, we arrived at the non-descript Continental Airlines Arena. The Meadowlands. A crazy little gigantic sports complex. I think 37 teams play there.
Before the game a high school choir performed. 10-15 pasty white kids singing a capella, a group of them awkward boys beat-boxing, Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe.” I had to look it up. I recognized the song, but was mesmerized by the hip-hopified, embarrassingly craptastic rendition of an already horrible song. I never want to be at a sporting event early again in my life. Although right before the players began to warm up, my favorite song played on the PA: “chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup with a soda on the side.” Brilliant!
I was attacked during the game. And it’s all the damn mascot’s fault. The mascot and those stupid t-shirt guns. 7 foot mop fired it right at me. I sat there uninterested while a herd of idiots grabbed for a free t-shirt—these being the same people willing to fork over hundreds of dollars to watch grown men put a ball in a hoop. One of the cows sat two seats to the left of me, his son in the seat next to me, while two elementary-aged kids reached for the flying ball of cotton. It landed directly between my nikes and aforementioned cow two seats over dove through my crotchal region, almost dislocating my left knee. He crawled under me and retrieved the prize, holding it in front of the children in triumph. That wasn’t even the peak of the evening.
Fearing I would be stranded in New Jersey forever, I departed the game before regulation and headed to the bus back to New York. A mistake on my part given the game went into double overtime, with over three hundred points scored. Had I stayed, I wouldn’t have been privy to the events that followed on my return back to New York. I wasn’t the only fan eager to leave. One by one, then two by two, then three by three, people started to board the bus. By threesies, the driver was overwhelmed, allowing one robust, crew cut/mop-top punk past him without dispensing his ticket. The driver screamed at the fatty to come back and give him his ticket, however the corpulent pimple made his way to the rear of the bus, attempting to ignore the driver. The other bus inhabitants began to rally behind the driver, screaming for him to give the driver his ticket. One such rallyer was an older gentleman in Montana plaid sitting in the first seat next to the driver. He screamed the loudest for the guy to “Get off the fucking bus!” Pushed back to the front of the bus, the punk pleaded with everyone that he just had to find his ticket, that he bought it earlier. Nobody wanted excuses, they just wanted justice. Now at the front of the bus, he pleaded to the man in seat one, “Chill out, man.” To which the man responded, “Get off the bus!” The punk, instead of attempting to retrieve his ticket, instigated a fight with the man thirty years his senior. In hearing all the commotion, a bus official boarded the bus and calmly attempted to get this freeloader off the bus and the rest of us on our way. The punk then turned his fury onto this nice gentleman just doing his job. This obviously wasn’t the first time some trash instigated a fight and tried to board a bus for free and within moments a few more officials boarded and apprehended the freeloader. Everybody cheered.
Driving back to New York, listening to Miles Davis’ “Freddie Freeloader,” staring through steamed windows, we passed a shopping mall with Christmas lights aligned: Peace on Earth.