NCAA basketball tournamment...alone and turning into an asshole

Anybody who actually has ears or eyes (my apologies to the Helen Keller's of the world) knows that the NCAA basketball tournament has started. Thursday afternoon, after collecting everybody's money for the office bracket, I sat back in my desk chair and tried doing my job as well as catching first round action. It didn't work, and at the end of the day, I cracked open a beer and watched the end of some game that I cannot recall now (I'm upset at my tone).

I left the office after a couple of beers, and headed over to the bar to collect my things (I had left them there the night before). I then walked over to a friend of my sister's place to have dinner with my sister and my moms. My sister was in the city to interview at a charter school. This whole time, basketball did not cross anyone's mind (except mine). I was increasingly agitated as I saw USC vs. Kansas St come and go, and I never got to see OJ Mayo and Michael Beasley. I missed all the late games as I ate pizza with my moms and sister. That was still really fun, and I love hanging out with them, but this is March Madness we are talking about.



I woke up late since I had good Friday off, and I strolled over to the bar...by myself. I am not sure how many of my readers ever go to the bar by themselves. It is a striking mix between alcoholism, loneliness and comfort. A bar, even a rowdy one, is my most natural habitat. I sat with my Blue Moon and periodic shots of Jameson, and let my mind wander. I would've been more rapt with attention if the AU Eagles were just a little taller, or just a little quicker. I got caught up in the March Madness frenzy when they were tied with 5:00 minutes left, but as I ordered my fourth or fifth shot, Tennessee rolled off like seven points in a minute, and that was that. Listen to this--I am getting bummed just writing it.

As a Bills and Orange fan, I was not surprised, but I was impressed with how much AU stayed in it against one of the best teams in the country. I understand what disappointment means, and watching an over matched AU team lose by only 15 points was not it. The American Eagles fought valiently. I was alone at this point, and everyone of my friends was gone. I didn't know what to do, so I went home and fell asleep with an empty beer bottle in my hand on my living room couch. Pathetic. Not so with Voldemort. He decided to send this email, which made me miss DC (who knows what shenanigans might have transpired if I had been there). Note to readers I had to edit this so the grammar didn't keep me up tonight--it's still not perfect, but I think that gives it some charm:

"Preface: I apologize to anyone who has heard most of this story already, but since I was completely blacked out by 4pm on Friday I don't remember who I already told this story to.

Noon Friday March 21, it is a beautiful spring day in DC, sunny and in the sixties. I have just finished helping the __________'s fill up their truck, said my final good byes and was taking the train to Cleveland Park Bar and Grill to watch the AU basket ball game.

I am wearing my only piece of AU paraphernalia which is an AU tshirt my parents bought me my senior year of high school which looks like it has been around the block more times than Ms. ________ after the merchant marines went on strike in 79'. I digress....

I walk into CPBG, and immediately begin glancing over their approximately 30 some televisions to find the AU game. I then realize that AU is on every single TV. HUZZAH, I exclaim then begin looking for a place to sit. My search for a seat didn't last long as I realized the bar was already packed completely to capacity with AU MANIA. Every single person is wearing AU shirts, hats, red, white, and blue face paint, there is even a cheering section of super hot AU chicks with big posters they made just to cheer on the team.

Welcome pure ecstasy! Going to AU, I never really experienced such a great NCAA moment in all my years. I immediately order two bud lights and stand a few rows back from the bar watching the game. Soon after my friend _____ meets in the bar exclaiming "holy shit, i never knew this was an AU bar?!?!" I could have responded "neither did I" but I chose to lie and say "oh yea dude, big time!"

The game that should have been a blow out was extremely close, with every basket, every turnover, and every foul resulting in an explosion of emotion reverberating throughout the two story establishment. When AU tied the game 40-40 in the second half, the emotion honestly matched that of watching Vinatieri kick it through the uprights against the Rams in 2002. Girls I had never met before were jumping into my arms in celebratory rejoice, I was hugging men, who moments ago were mere strangers.

Shots... oh god the shots... everyone was buying shots, and not like "I'll have three shots," nooo people would just yell to the bartender across the bar "SHOTS" and about 50 "Kamakasi" like shots would be poured in little plastic Dixie cups for everyone's enjoyment. I got to hear what I now deem the official AU fight song. Not as good as those Bull Dogs but at least we got something. "AU clap clap CLAPCLAPCLAP" "AU clap clap CLAPCLAPCLAP"

My hands are red and burning from repeating this nonstop throughout most of the second half of the game. One of my highlights was watching people walk in and ask "Hey what TV is the Miami game on?" and having the bartender look at them like an asshole and state: "Just AU in here this afternoon."

The game that should have been a blowout finally ended and the entire bar got on their feet to give AU a standing ovation as they marched off the court. I stood there in my war torn AU t-shirt, feeling so much pride for the University we all called home for four years, being the last one of all us Alum to actually be living in DC at the time, I got a little emotional, but that was quickly cured by Dewars, and the sunny roof deck.

The rest of the night gets very foggy. I remember drinking on the roof deck for a while, and then returning home with a gaggle of people (like 15 of ______ coworkers) I have brief memories of beer bongs, blunts and Manny and Olga's. I woke up Saturday feeling like _____ in Burger King, only much much worse...."



I woke up Friday night, and didn't really do much. I hung out with a friend, and watched some basketball, ate way too much Chinese and didn't really get the March madness madness aspect of it. March Madness conjures up images of basketball bottomed beer mugs, blow jobs in the elevator and getting so aggressive about my team that my friends don't want to be seen in public with me. Now, I did get to fall asleep with the sexiest woman in the world; someone who shames every Blow Job I have ever gotten, but the madness of it all was sorely lacking the first two days of the tournament. That all ended as the teams in the tournament were cut in half.

I woke up that Saturday determined to make a run at it. I am not really sure what that phrase means, but you can be sure that includes drinking to excess and doing excessive amounts of drugs. I went over to the bar with Renews and my girl and we started to drink.

There is always a point right when I start drinking with friends, and I know that I am going to get really drunk. They always agree to that first shot without hesitation. 50% of the time, if I am with someone not part of the degenerate clan, they are hesitant and do one, but always do that first one so they don't get the moniker "pussy" rained down on them like thunder bolts from Zeus. Very juvenile, I know, but I have become no less childish from high school. I always want to order the first shot, I am just that guy who usually does with the first drink orders. Well, Renews did not hesitate. He started to try and flirt with our waitress, with mild success. Jameson, pitcher, Jameson, pitcher, and then we decided to go over to Renews' brother. Well that is when thinks start to get a bit fuzzy. I drank some more (Vodka with a splash of lime), and we started to play with Brett Favre (which is generally a good sign, but wasn't this night).

We eventually went over to his brothers friends pad for a while, and my girl went home to get changed for the bar (women do these things--which makes them super hot, so I will never complain). I started to notice that I had a nice slur going at this point, which is a bad thing considering that we hadn't even gotten to the bar. Finally I left with Renews and some of his buddies from back home and we went to Sessions (which I have talked about in earlier blogs). Sessions is where the wheels came off.

I am not sure if it was the lack of nourishment (I only ate some Buffalo Wings, some mac & cheese and pussy that day), but by the time I got around to taking a shot at Sessions I knew I was done for. I did the wrong thing. I thought that if I loaded up on Brett Favre, I would be able to push through. Instead I almost got busted in the bathroom, and I freaked out my girls friend, and almost ruined my buddies chances of getting laid. All in all, I blacked out and made it home and woke up naked and with my girlfriend pissed at me. I got really sick on Sunday, missed most of the action, and eventually got so sick I couldn't even go into work on Monday.

All in all life kicked my ass, and the NCAA tournament alone has made me reconsider my role as basketball and drinking prognosticator.

This stuff is pure Gold

So, I am minding my own business tonight watching the new show on Fox about the immortal man New Amsterdam, then stripping my clothes off near my bathroom, when I hear my girl yell something from our bedroom. Curious, I saunter into my bedroom, and she has a dumbfounded look on her face as she stares at our television.

"What?" I ask.
"Just watch," she answers.

She rewinds the local news.

"This just in, the just inaugurated New York state Governor admits to years long extramarital affair. There are rumors that he also hired a prostitute with government funds while he was a state senator"

"rewind that again baby, I don't believe it." She rewinds it and...again with the annoucement. All I could think was:

"shiiiiiittttttt" doing my best Clay Davis impersonation.

The new Governor of New York, David Paterson, didn't wait for the celebrating to die down before admitting, with his wife Michelle, that he had an affair from 1999-2001. They called it a rocky time, and that was that.

What the hell is going on? First off, David Paterson is legally blind, how is he pulling so much tail? When I say legally blind, I mean he looks blind too, with a sort of lazy eyed countenance that can be attributed to blind people and Stuart Scott.

Should we commemorate Paterson for coming clean right away? It seems contrived, but I can't help but believe him (he is blind). He waited until after he was sworn in as Governor before admitting the indiscretion. Did his handlers make him go public like Spitzer did with the press conference where his feigned contrition was about as genuine as his liaisons singing prowess (by the way, Ashley Alexander Dupre made about a million dollars on Friday when she started selling her MySpace single at 98 cents a pop)?



Patterson's wife, Michelle, also admitted infidelity. Generally, it doesn't take a marriage counselor to show that these two people shouldn't have stayed married. I wonder what the consequence of all of this is going to be tomorrow when I wake up and see Paterson's mug all over my morning paper. I wonder if there will be a backlash. I am guessing there will be a bunch of journalists who are going to try their hardest to dig up dirt on the new Governor, but he seems to have avoided the same fate of his predecessor.

There are unsubstantiated rumors that Paterson may have used campaign funds from his state senate bid in order to use a high class hooker, but that is just some silly story; although, I bet some people thought that once the Spitzer story broke. If Paterson does end up being exposed as a user of prostitutes, then I am just gonna die. This whole thing is just to incredible to be true. Journalists all over New York are walking around with semi's again, and if this keeps up the New York Governors post will overshadow the National Primaries that are tearing apart the Democratic Primary.

The new first couple of New York State mentioned that they remained together, and it was more important that they stuck it out and got guidance. I am happy about them, but what about their kids? I mean being a kid is hard enough without being the Governors kid, but augment that with two consecutive nefarious affairs, and you are gonna have two very messed up families. Spitzer's three daughters will either never be able to trust their men, or they will Star in a movie with Britney Spears on Cinemax. Paterson's family is going be dragged through the ringer because of this latest announcement. If McCain is somehow exposed as a Casanova that paraded around with whores, then I just might have to quit writing about politics.

I respect the Paterson's for overcoming their problems in marriage, but I also think that if someone is going to run for public office, and consequently scrutinized by paparazzi, they should keep their dicks in their pants. The side effects are so large, and you are fucking up your family if you are caught, that do so is just to risky. Listen to me--waxing noble when I snorted, drank and fucked my way to oblivion. Anyway, this whole two weeks has been unbelievable more than anything, and makes me happy just thinking about it.

Meanwhile, I guarantee that more important issues will be avoided by the press, as they try to find out what the Governor did or did not do with his cock, not that I blame the papers, this stuff is pure gold.

Some changes

People of the world who read this crap, I am trying to take it to the next level, and even though I have no experience with web publishing, I created this as my own domain--by purchasing it from GoDaddy for a year. You can all access it still, but it will read how many hits I get, and hopefully this way I will start to get some loots for my hard work. Continue to enjoy my posts on a weekly basis, and remember that most of what you read is true. Spread the word--and ignore y turds.

Also--you can view how many people have clicked on my link at the top--yes Florists sponser this, I will probably try and change that

Counter code

Florist Online

Hiccup Haiku and some links

Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I think the only woman who reads this puts my penis inside her on occasion, so to say ladies is probably a misnomer (apologies to other women who read this--it was just a lame attempt at a joke--and I am too tired to edit). Before I go on, I hope everyone likes my new tattoo which headlines this particular posting. It reminds me of Kittie--that fuckin' whore (again I apologize for jokes you do not get).

I am pretty tired tonight, not as tired as the Cavaliers in the first half against the Nets, but tired nonetheless. So, I am going to send along some links and bring back one of my favorites--the hiccup haiku. For those of you who don't know, the Hiccup Haiku's are definitely an inside look at close personal friends who have appeared on this blog before, but if you are reading this for the first time, just skip past them, and go to the links.

Bron Bron needs his own
throng, so when sweeps comes along;
won't be his swan song.

Voldemort just got
Wire. Will the show get tired?
I would then retire.

William Wallace plays
Bball well enough to play
D1 just for fun.

Renews in Balti
more, is he bored, or just
asleep on my floor?

Papawawa knows
where the wind blows because
He looks at my nose.

Now on to the links...

white people
Indians
These are cultural blogs that crack me up--especially the white people. In most cases it's dead on both for white people and Indians (not Native Americans but actual Indian people--by the way it is taking all my self control not to mention my favorite Indian last name--and all my buddies from college know exactly who I am talking about). I must say that if you can't laugh at yourself, you are a pretty terrible person to have around since you take yourself so seriously. I am not saying you should just let people talk shit about you, but if it is humorously done, and all in good fun, then your panties shouldn't get the runs while you fly into a rage. I'm just saying.

Obama Girl unleashed as Superhero
I have made no secret of my love for Obama, and Obama girl is fuckin' hot, so enjoy.


A positive Bills article--which is itself ironic
I know I talk about the Bills all the time, but here they are actually getting some respect, so I am putting it in here. It's like a rare treasure.

Cuse stinks up the joint
This is just to temper some of the enthusiasm any Western New York fans might have been feeling. I feel so bad for Boeheim. Aside from Melo's incredible year, he has just had no luck, and this is the second time in a a row they are gonna miss the big dance. I hope Shawnie in Cali isn't fired, suicidal, or in a gutter some where. Actually I think he is getting laid tonight, so if you read this brother, go get your dick wet--you deserve it.

Simmons: great writer--depressing subject
Everybody knows how much I love Simmons, and this is a good example of some really good writing that is also very sad.

Simmons' What Ifs...
William Wallace and I were talking about this article today (oh and I forgot to mention that he was my source for the Allan Houston hookers information--props to him for being my go to source for Astronomy--not astrology--and NBA basketball). Anyway, if you are one of the people who actually enjoys the pros league--check this out. It's an almost surreal look at what could have been in the NBA if certain things went a different way. A huge hit for guys like me and William Wallace, but not so interesting if you are into hockey or spring training baseball like some of my chucklehead friends are.

"If Larry Bird were black, no one would think he was that good"--Isiah Thomas, 1988
I like Scoop Jackson he brings some much needed South side of Chicago colloquial writing to ESPN.com, but to say that Bird has done as bad a job as Isiah is just plain wrong. The main thing--Bird doesn't fuckin' coach the team. Anyway, he makes some good points about the Pacers always being in legal trouble, so I linked too it, but it is a bit hyperbolic to compare him to the lecherous Isiah and his racist, misogynistic ass. Isiah needs to get the fuck outta NYC before some crazy motherfucker kills him for what he is doing. He probably can't even walk the streets here without getting spit on.

Funny as shit A bunch of my buddies have seen this, but for those of you not on my list serve emails, check it out--it cracks me up.

Office Shorts Anyone who hasn't had their fill of the Office because of the writers strike, should check this out just to get your fill before the show comes back on air with new episodes. Also, the show is syndicated on TBS, so you can record repeats.

Bush sings
This is terrible quality because it is recorded on a cell phone, but you get to hear Bush sing, which is funny in so many different ways. I know it has reached beyond cliche to make fun of Bush because he is such an easy target, but this man is still the leader of the most powerful country in the world. The least he could do is act like it. Now, I mentioned before that people who can't make fun of themselves are boring and stiff, but their comes a point when that does not apply, and I would rather have an uptight President then a Hick doofus who makes fun of himself after he has fucked up so much. I am going to clip and post the lyrics to what he is singing in case you can't hear it because the audio sucks, but keep in mind he is trying to roast himself--and doing a great job of it:

Lyrics:

Yes you're all gonna miss me, The way you used to quiz me, But soon I'll touch the brown, brown grass of home.

I spent my days clearing brush
I clear my head of all the fuss
But the fuss you made over Harriet and Brownie
Down the lane I look and here comes Scooter
Finally free of the prosecutor

Chorus

And then I wait and look around me
At the oval walls that surround me
I realize I was only dreaming
For there's Condi and Dick, my old compadre,
Talking to me about some oil rich Saudi,
But soon I'll touch the brown brown grass of home.

Chorus

That old White house is behind me,
I am once again carefree,
Don't have to worry 'bout a crisis in Pyongyang.
Down the lane I look, Dick Cheney is strolling
With documents he'd been withholding,
It's good to touch the brown brown grass of home.


I think that is enough to satisfy my 3 readers tonight, plus I don't know how you top that last link. Anyway, take care, and make sure to keep reading about the sleazy Eliot Spitzer, who I found out today, did not want to put on a Jimmy Cap when he fucked the prostitutes. Fuckin' Degenerate, Inhuman, Godless, excuse for a human being--God I wish I still had a picture of that poster so I could get someone to photo shop it (again an inside joke and I apologize). Peace my peeps, oh and if you liked this, take three seconds to write a freakin' comment. I never know if anyone but my closest friends are ever reading it.

Friends, Jazzy Jeff, Favre, Scotch, Flat Tops, a midget, Planetarium, Robert Redford, and did I mention a midget

DJ Jazzy Jeff is a forgotten man. He has some wealth; although, how much I do not know. He has some notoriety, but not a lot and most of the fame he possesses as a DJ is almost always tempered with the inevitable references to his former partner in crime. If he was a shallow person this would probably bother him (I have no way of knowing), but he would have to accept that a majority of people probably don’t know him except as a prop for Will Smith. The strange thing is that the bill they were always on musically started with “DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince,” Jazzy was mentioned first. During a music career that featured a few albums in the eighties and some shittier but catchier stuff in the nineties (Getttin’ Jiggie wid it, Going to Miami), Will Smith had a lot of fun with his partner in crime in both the Fresh Prince television show and in his musical career, but then Will started to make movies and…


Now, there are plenty of people that have played second fiddle; Mindy to Mork, Jan to Marsha, Raphael to Leonardo, and the Dominoes to Derek, but at no time did these fictional characters get left in the dust so abruptly. Eric B was Rakim’s greatest collaborator but neither one of them went on to international fame as a movie star. In fact, you could make the argument that DJ Jazzy Jeff is the most bygone man in hip hop or possibly music history. What does this long preamble have to do with anything, other than a narcissistic need to place every endeavor within a pop culture and historical reference? Well, I saw DJ Jazzy Jeff this past weekend, and he was more spectacular than any Will Smith blockbuster I have ever seen.

You remember Jazzy from those old school videos, Summertime and Parents just don’t understand, also as “Jazz” from Fresh Prince. He used to get tossed out on his ass all the time by Big Uncle “Zeke” Banks. In fact, that entire scene describes the Will Smith Jazzy conundrum. You see, you could describe the Banks’ family as Tom Cruise and all the other celebrities Will Smith has recently become friends with, and DJ Jazzy Jeff as the friend from West side of Philly, and he doesn’t quite fit in. Well Jazzy is quite the show men when given the opportunity, and he would make the Banks’ and all the Hollywood Jet set crowd exclaim in alarm: “who is this?” Well, Will Smith, don’t ever forget your roots.

On Friday night, I got out of work, and I was pumped. I think most of my readers know this feeling. You have about 15 minutes left in your day. You are watching the minute hand of the clock slowly dwindle towards the hour to leave, almost like your computer clock is lollygagging and deliberately trying to enrage you. The best analogy I have for this is people who take up the entire escalator when you are trying to get by them. Well, this was what was happening to me a couple of weeks ago.

My adrenaline was pumping because I knew I was going to see DJ Jazzy Jeff with my buddies, and it couldn’t come fast enough. Finally, after the world’s slowest minute passed, I jumped up from my desk and jetted down the back stairs. I was too impatient to wait for the elevator and all the people who would inevitably cram onto it with me. I almost sprinted outside, and immediately called a friend who I knew was working from home. After I caught my breathe, I told him to meet me at my place. I took the subway home, and after getting off the train ran into another road block as a geriatric took four years to climb four stairs.

Finally free of her dawdling, I got home. Once I got there, I had that epiphany you have when you know you have been rushing and there was no real reason to. You stop, look around, and try to remember what was making you do everything at a hundred miles an hour. So, I did what any upstanding young man does—I took a huge crap, and admired what had just been shot from my ass. I thought about taking a cell phone pic of it, realized that was pathetic since I was sure that some craps are supposed to be private (actually all craps should be private), and sat on my couch and waited. And waited, and waited. Finally I heard the buzzer sound to announce my friend’s arrival.

Some readers might be wondering why I am not mentioning my friends by the nicknames I have designated for them. Well, for anyone who was around in the beginning of this little blog experiment, I almost got one of my friends fired when I mentioned his company by name. Thankfully, nothing happened and my friend, as all true friends do, encouraged me to keep writing it because he liked what he saw. I tried using nicknames, but because of all the drug references (yes I take a lot of drugs and will never apologize for that) some other friends started to get worried. I was not coming up with monikers that masked their identities enough. You might have seen a quick post about it before the Eliott Spitzer essay, but now, I will either not mention them, or cast them as merely friends. I understand that people could get in trouble, and while a part of me wants to scream at them to stop being a pussy, another part of me sees where they are coming from. Now, back to the story:

My buddy came in, and just a short while later my other buddy showed up. Fuck it, their nicknames are good—and neither one of them complained, so Renews and Papawawa showed. Then, our good friend Voldemort showed up via train from DC. We went out and got some Speyside single malt Scotch named Balvenie. We have been getting into the single malts that are a part of Voldemort’s Single Malt calendar, and Balvenie was March, so we decided to get it as part of the pre-game. Anyone who likes Scotch should be hanging out with us on a regular basis. That said, Brett Favre came over, and started playing some football. Brett Favre was everywhere, and as Big Pun says: “You nasty son—but I don’t care.” Brett Favre, single malt Scotch, friends, girlfriends (my girl and Papawawa’s girl showed up later) and now the music.


I have never been to the Natural History Museum on the West Side of Central Park, but the cab ride was fun since everyone was positively glowing from Brett’s arrival. It was a quick cab and cheap, and I showed up feeling grand. I waited with Renews as our friends and girlfriends checked their coats. Last month (they do these shows each month), there was a DJ, and Kanye West showed up unannounced for a few songs where he rocked the mic. We weren’t expecting any crazy guest appearances, but looking back, I am glad because the night was incredible without them.


After what seemed like an inexorable time, we finally checked our coats. Walking in was an experience unto itself. I was wearing a fly blazer (a gift from Voldemort), with some trendy collared shirt that was light blue, some snobby boots I got from Union Square, and a scarf—just so I had that nice pretentious look which New York symbolizes. When I walked in, I knew I had not made a mistake with my ensemble. Renews and Papawawa were just chilling in sneakers in jeans, but since they are real NY, they can get away with that. Voldemort went even further for this evening. He rocked a full on suit, purple suspenders, collared purple shirt, and a purple handkerchief. He looked balls out, but I will get back to that in a moment.

All in all we were a variegated group with different styles and walks. Most of the people I saw when my group checked their coats were hipsters in the Williamsburg vein, so it was nice that we didn’t limit ourselves as a group; although, I certainly could have passed as a hipster the way I was dressed. Most of the Williamsburg kids I saw looked something like this:



Renews and I sat and poked fun at the passing people, but if I had seen myself I would have certainly made a crack about it. Renews and Papawawa were like the girls in our group; not overtly trying to dress up, but not snobby, and certainly not trying to appear cool, which is why they all looked good. I was trying to appear cool, and in the process probably didn’t, but that is not a new feeling for me. Voldemort looked like a snappy investment banker, which incidentally is what he is. My girl looked beautiful as did Papawawas.

The walk down the spiral staircase onto the main floor of the planetarium was a fuckin’ trip. I think DJ Dirty Fingers was spinning some trance Drum and Bass, and the lights flickered on the group and ceiling as if a kaleidoscope was being beamed in from a ceiling I couldn’t see the top of. I immediately started to walk with a little beat behind my motions. I could see all my buddies doing the same—the music and atmosphere was so fun and unreal. I half expected to simultaneously be kicked out for not being cool enough, offered drugs like I was on Shakedown Street, have my photograph taken by paparazzi and my eyeballs and ears explode in pools of blood and goo. It was an experience to say the least. When we got down to the main level, I stopped and looked around and let it wash over me. Usually, I would immediately make a beeline towards where it looked like there might be alcohol.

You had to line up behind a Kiosk to purchase tickets, which you then used for beer or wine. No hard alcohol, which is probably a good thing because of all the drinking we did. We decided to get as many tickets as possible, so we would never have to wait in the line again. This proved fruitful, and the way they set it up avoided any waiting for drinks. I quickly got a beer like everyone else, and started working my way around. Jazzy wasn’t supposed to come on for a while, so we all started to explore the labyrinthine corridors and stairs that lined the main hall where the DJ stood and people danced. This is when a friend of mine from home called. I had told him we were going, and told him to meet me, but he called and said they were outside, and there were no tickets left.

I quickly left my beer at the door and met him outside. He said they were sold out, but after some quick thinking we snuck his group by the guards to the Kiosks where they could purchase tickets. They did so, and we all returned to the party. It was just one small glitch in an otherwise perfect night. There would be one more, but that was at the end.

Wandering around, drinking some beer, periodic trips to the bathroom to see Brett, and then my girl mentioned going to see the planetarium showing of Cosmic Collisions. Now, our good friend, William Wallace in Georgia, is the resident science buff, but he has turned us all into inquisitive minds in regards to astronomy, so this movie was doubly special. Unfortunately, DJ Jazzy Jeff started up right as we got on the elevator to get to the show. The show was not going to be that long, so we all agreed to continue on our path of destiny.


I sat next to Favre and Renews, and my girl sat in front of me. Voldemort, Papawawa and Brett sat to my right with Papawawa’s girl K. I am mapping out where we sat because the planetarium show is where we would all lose it. We were all hypnotized by the images flashing in front of us on the screen, Robert Redford’s soothing voice narrating the action. Dip down Favre, look up universes exploding, down up, down up, down up down up, mind expanding, theater is going delirious; I am sweating just recounting it as I write.


Renews and I couldn’t stop laughing and talking loudly—maybe drawing attention to Brett, but it didn’t matter. We were all so messed up and staring intently at the screen that we had no comprehension of what was happening except the ocular shaped screen that encompassed us all. Also, Voldemort looked like he was on boomers with Papawawa, and we were all just so blown away that when the movie ended we didn’t really know what to do. I went to the bathroom with my girl. In the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and saw a freaking monster. Covered in sweat and grime—hair everywhere—clothes a disorganized mess. Someone saw me laughing at myself and quickly left the restroom. The Cosmic Collisions had exploded all over me, and now I was going to see DJ Jazzy Jeff.




When my girl and I came back out, we were blown away. We quickly got a beer and met up with the rest of the crew. As I was making my way to the dance floor, I saw a little kid dancing with five Nubian Princesses. I thought it was cute. Nope. He was a midget kicking some game to these women, and they loved it. Now, I have very little experience with little people aside from Howard Stern’s Beetlejuice, Hank the Angry Dwarf (RIP), and this little midget that was on a porno the MILF from my old job loaned me. That being said, little people must not have it that rough because all of these women were dancing with him all night. I danced with my girl, tried really hard to avoid CRD, scoped out all the people getting down and generally had an amazing time.


Voldemort was getting his ass grabbed by one of the Nubian midget dancers because he was too stylish for his own good, so I was keeping my eye on that when I saw a group of Flat Tops get into a circle and start busting moves. I have a discerning eye for dance moves, and these guys knew their 80’s dance combinations. They were dressed just like Jazz used to be on Fresh Prince of Bel Air. The Flat Tops drew a large crowd to watch and since they were right near us, my girl and K got over and had their pictures taken with them (black dudes love her—and come to think of it—white guys love her too). This whole time Jazzy was playing old school West Coast Chronic interspersed with BIGGIE, and some old stuff that I didn’t even know plus, Rakim, Slick Rick, Beasties, ‘Pac, then some newer stuff like Brand Nubian, Tribe on and on and on. It was an incredible display of the breadth of Jazzy’s musical knowledge. The hipster crowd let him know they appreciated it with countless shouts and claps and call and response with Jazzy as he spun the timeless tunes of hip hop, jazz and funk.


Jazzy wasn’t doing things straight up either—he would cut a sample right when you were about to sing the chorus and switch it to another song—almost trying to fuck with the crowd, but we just ate it up more. He is a showman, and even though I was too fucked up to even lay eyes on him since I was focusing on my girl, the midget, the woman trying to molest Voldemort, Papawawa and K, and then Renews hopping from girl to girl, that I had no real time to try and see his skills as a turntablist. In short: it was too incredible to describe with my limited vocabulary.

I saw the buddy of mine from high school after the show and he was like me: covered in sweat and grinning from ear to ear. DJ Jazzy just does that to people. No one looked disappointed, and everyone was drunk but not belligerent. It was perfect. I walked out of the building feeling worn out, so I was standing near a car throwing passes with Favre, and he was almost gone when the PoPo rolled up after pulling over the cab my girl and K were in. I quickly left Favre there, and everything went to hell. Everyone accused me of being an idiot. Some things to comprehend:
1) When have I ever been foolish enough to leave Favre alone on the ground when the Popo are rolling over? The answer: never.
2) Brett was basically gone.
3) I am Brett Favre.
Now that I have gotten that off my chest, I will commence with the rest of the night.

We bounced from the Natural History Museum and cabbed it back up to Papawawa’s place on the Upper East Side. There, we grabbed some grub, and went up to his apartment to play with Favre some more. At around 3 in the morning my girl called it a night and went home. A couple of hours later, Voldemort, Renews, and me went back to my pad. We drank the rest of the Balvenie since it was March 1st and then Renews starting talking shit about the Favre fiasco, and I said something, which I can’t remember, and Renews took his belt off and lightly flung it at me. Well, I went ballistic, and left the tiny room for a while, and eventually my girl came out of the room to chastise me for being loud and found me punching Renews in the stomach and giving him Charlie Horses. We decided to call it a night. Thank God. The next day—Renews and I used Milano Market to make up.

There are no morals to this quick story except that Brett Favre is an incredible Quarterback, Robert Redford is an overall talent, midgets get women, Voldemort is borderline suave, Renews is crazy and awesome, Papawawa is a great host and friend, K and my girl have a lot of patience, the planetarium is incredible, and DJ Jazzy Jeff is more talented than Will Smith could ever hope to be.

Long live Jazzy.

Audacity to Prosecute

I don't really follow politics, but as the title of this post alludes to, I read a bit (if you don't get that joke, don't worry), and I am following the Democratic primaries with a passing interest. Mainly, I pay attention because I have a friend who works for Obama and a friend who works for Hil-Dog, so I have some personal interest in the outcome aside from who the new leader of the free? [sic] world will be. That being said, I do not follow the daily horse race that splurges bullshit across the headlines on a weekly basis. Hil-Dog accused Obama of being Ken Star. Yawn. Obama wants to see Hil-Dog's tax returns and the financial books from the Whitewater real estate transaction...zzzzz. The only thing that really makes me get excited is a good ol' fashioned scandal. Well we have that now. No, Obama didn't fuck a white girl last year. No, Hilary does not suck dick for political donations. Nope, this involves former New York Attorney General and current New York Governor Eliot Spitzer...

I'm sure that everyone who is reading this has already heard about what happened. He is involved in a prostitution ring that had him paying $5500 per hour for these ladies:

I don't have any problems with prostitution. I really don't. I would never do it. Mainly because I would never enjoy sex with someone who didn't just want to fuck me for free. My puritanical views aside, I don't particularly care if other people want to (and that includes women--actually I know some women who probably need a nice Richard Gere Gigolo). My point is that it doesn't bother me. The courtesan is the worlds oldest profession because sex is something that men are willing to pay for, and this has never shocked or angered me. It's sorta like anal sex--I can see the allure, but it is just not something I will ever do.

I have already written a bunch as to why that is (sex--not the anal thing--maybe I will write about that some time). The primordial urge to fuck which is buried deep in your brain and loins yada yada. I have spoken and written on it countless times, and will continue to because sex is a very interesting topic. As are religion and politics, which is why you aren't supposed to talk about any of them at work. As you can guess, I ignore that basic tenant of office etiquette.

The reason I am yet again giving a long preamble to my point is because I do not want to get confused as some conservative thinker. I am not. It would pain me to think that anyone thought of me as anything less than liberally crazy, and unwilling to listen to societies morality or structure. But, Eliot Spitzer how much of hypocrite do you have to be before Satan comes right up from hell and puts a leash around your neck, farts in your face, laughs maniacally, points at Huckabee says: "you're next," then leads him right back to the fiery inferno, which will be his abode forever.

If you have followed this story at all you would know that as Attorney General Spitzer was a huge proponent of video game rating systems. Just check out why he thinks video games should be rated for violence and sexual conduct:

"Like all parents, I know it is increasingly difficult to protect our children from negative influences… we have learned that when self-regulation fails, government must step in… we must do more to protect our children from excessive sex and violence in the media…
Media content has gotten more graphic, more violent and more sex-based… Currently, nothing under New York State law prohibits a fourteen-year old from walking into a video store and buying… a game like ‘Grand Theft Auto,’ which rewards a player for stealing cars and beating people up. Children can even simulate having sex with a prostitute…"

I don't need to point out why this is incredibly artificial in light of what has just surfaced because all of my readers are as smart or smarter than I am. I must say that the douche is gonna get his balls twisted by his wife. Check out this picture:


That was taken earlier today at his press conference. The one where he admitted to embarrassing his family etc. I would say that it took balls to get up and make a comment like that, but his advisers probably told him to do that because he seems more spineless than your average politician, and only the pleadings of his advisors would force him to apologize for anything. To rail against the impropriety of video games and white collar crime and then to use high class prostitution that your political stature allows you to afford, is the ultimate injustice. $5500/hr. Some of those hookers get close to 30 grand a day when they have a few clients or one who is particularly lonely. I wonder how much he has blown in one session (and yes the pun was on purpose)? The amount is almost as staggering as the person implicated.

I bet you there are more. I guarantee that Allan Houston has used the service. anybody who follows the NBA like I do knows what happened with him. He took his guaranteed money and retired. I am not sure who told me that Allan Houston liked hookers, but I definitely remember it being said, so I am going to go out on a limb and guess that a man who was paid close to $20 million a year by the Knicks for doing nothing probably found some time to get his jollies with the best whores in the game, and I guarantee that he is not the only one or even the most high profile.


What a fuckin' idiot this politician is. Eliot Spitzer has no one to blame but himself. I would quote some of the sick shit that he did--but what's the point. I am just blown away that such a powerful man could be so stupid. I don't think that Eliot Spitzer is any different than all men or all women though. Even very powerful ones make huge mistakes. Dubya fucked us in Iraq, in New Orleans, even when he started doing that jig the other night in the White House (check the Daily Show archives for it), but that is not a surprising revelation. What is surprising is how someone with such a bright political future and with so much riding on his moral stance could pay $5500 for an hour of a prostitutes time. Bush blew tons of coke, got us into a war we can't get out of, and stranded hundreds of black people without food and water in New Orleans, but he wasn't dumb enough to get his dick wet with someone other than his wife.

In between the times today when I was trying to find out what a $5500 prostitute looks like,
and wasn't thanking whatever invisible forces prevented my cunt manager from coming to work, I was looking at this story and just trying to wrap my head around it. This is my manager by the way:

It's too ridiculous for a movie ; although, I am sure there is a script being written up for some TV movie starring Bill Pullman's brother. It is ironic that someone who considers themselves a moral compass, who is the ethical arbitrator of New York fuckin' city, was using the best whores in the country (I dare someone to come up with more expensive whores than $5500 an hour). I am not sure whether it would make it better or worse if they were cheap whores. Probably better. Anyone who has lived in Washington DC knows that Marion Barry is still governing a district in DC even though he was busted smoking fuckin' crack with some whores as mayor. At least he wasn't fuckin' Governor--thank goodness.

While he was attorney general of New York, Eliot Spitzer prosecuted a lot of wall street, white-collar crime. Putting himself in a karmic position that has come back to haunt him, but he wasn't ardently trying to bust prostitutes as part of a platform for Governor or State Attorney General--he merely busted the fat tycoons who made millions through illegal means--usually fraud or some such white collar crime. So, why am I so enthralled with this story. It has everything.

Sex, dirty rotten sex--check out the affidavit: http://graphics8.nytimes.com/packages/pdf/nyregion/20080310spitzer-complaint.pdf
Money, power, corruption, hypocrisy, sanctimonious bullshit, white men with power, and with the gall to initiate illegal acts while they are the states highest law enforcement official. It is incredible and it made an otherwise ho hum day into something just astounding. Fuck Hilary--who has a super delegate endorsement from Spitzer (wonder how she is going to spin that). Maybe Obama can get this whole thing right. Maybe? His tag line has been: "Yes we can!" but maybe it should be, "I hope I can!"

I know I do.