10

You, Annoying Deadbeat, have little to say lately. The usual inappropriate internet come-on does not bring you much joy these days--O, you know how these usually brighten your existence like the veritable smutty rays of sunshine that they truly are--so you've decided to do something different: talk about something that doesn't annoy you. 

"Buffalo" Sean Carroll, previously a staff writer for Glasstire and Free Press Houston (Hell, he may still be writing for FPH, but you're too lazy to find out, and you know that any reader thinking he or she will find a factual verification department on any ranting  blog post you spit out has another think coming) has recently opened "Melange Creperie" on the corner of Taft & Westheimer in the parking lot of Mango's cafe/hipster hang.

Crepes from a cart in a parking lot? O, you can hear people scoff, but you will not be fazed. It's not just you bowing to the fabulous French pancake, much like Ricky Bobby did in Talladega Nights--

renowned local food critic Alison Green, in her blog, has also given Melange Creperie the pouces up. 


On your trip, you had the fresh cherries, Nutella, and fresh whipped cream number, which just about put you in a coma--this is a good thing. There are also savory items on the menu, replete with protein. The sweet crepes are $5 each, and the savory ones are $6. Bargain! 


He's there every day: 7 a.m. to 1 p.m. weekdays, 9-2 weekends. 

Go find Sean and have a Freedom Flapjack! 


Bon ape-damned-tit.

9

Granted, you don't get out much, but in the past month you've seen precisely two women in Maxi-dresses (in person, mind you; they've been cluttering the media for quite some time now), and you've already seen two too many.

One only has to check out that maxed-out plucky crew of Sex and the City fame to see why this look should be avoided at all costs. Besides the fact that Cynthia Nixon, left, has finally revealed her true identity: she's Annie--you know, the one with saucer eyes and dog named Sandy--all grown up and hagged out from sexually pleasuring Daddy Warbucks (sort of against her will; she coulda stopped, but then she'd have to forgo the Manolo Blahniks...) and now abandoning her sexuality, mid-life, so that she may join the Betty Friedan types in the fight to reclaim the rights she so frivolously urged her and her sisters to dump for shallow materialism. 

You think they look stupid. Simply because they demonstrate, once again, that the fashion creating and fashion consuming public have little to no imagination. The '70s hippie-ish looks have been rearing their awfully ugly heads in the past few years, and the only difference between these godawful frocks that make even the scrawniest of us look like we're about ready to give birth and their dowdy forebears is that these newfangled halfway infantilizing/halfway baggy, bedraggled, blowsy, and dowdy housecoats are, rather than being made with gauzy cotton, now have a poly-blend stretch that gives them a creepy, filmy quality. 


However, the real issue with reviving these looks, you think, is that, in general, they're missing one crucial element: the drugs. And you're talkin' the original drugs. Now any yuppie with a closet and a grow lamp can turn out primo weed and dispense it at top dollar to his cohorts in accounting. Those don't count. They can practically be claimed as tax write-offs...and probably are in states where it's legal.

You're completely serious! C'mon! People need to work with you on this one. Back then, the folks were dressed that way because they were demonstrating their allegiance to the counter-culture movement. Billowy sleeves and empire bodices sure wouldn't've worked in the office with a pack of squares!


Paisley. Tie-dye. Billowy, floor-length halter gowns that said, I am free to express myself in the face of an oppressive culture! abounded. Now it's just I am free to wear this funky costume today, and tomorrow I'm going to go for the Little Asian Schoolgirl look, and Zippee! Won't I look hot? Is this not a riot?

Seriously. The drugs--or the equivalent of the drugs--should re-enter the equation. 

You realize, though, that making arguments of these kinds are simply going to label you as the immovable curmudgeon you undoubtedly are. There is, however, a very practical reason why this stupid look should stay on the pages of W , and off the streets...


This is Houston. It's fucking hot. And humid. Idiots can squawk all they want about the breeziness and freedom of movement they have with their new Maxis, but the truth of the matter is that it's just a whole lot more of something nobody needs in this city: extra fabric to cart around on their sweaty bods. 


And now that the fabrics are predominantly natural fibers combined with synthetic blends, that breathability of cotton and linen is much more limited than it was way back when. Not as practical or cool than their bearers assume it will be. 

That is, indeed, Tommy Smothers with your mother in June of 1972, Chicago, Illinois.  His look might be saying everything you need to know about fashion, the era itself, obligatory fundraisers, drugs and/or alcohol, and your general upbringing.


But really, the Earth Mother look never was your style, and it reminds you, rather uncomfortably, of your '70's upbringing. You distinctly remember a moment when a rather free-thinking woman milling about a Co-op Farmers' Market outside of Chicago, Illinois, turned herself just enough to the sunlight to display more an ample silhouette view of her frighteningly droopy breasts. Wouldn't it be a lot cooler--both physically and conceptually--if these new faux-hippies simply stuck out the summer heat in nice, tailored mini-skirts with far less cumbersome fabric to chafe their delicate hides? Unless they really, truly, want to look like Jo Ann Worley from Laugh-In? 

8

Sometimes you wonder if you've still "got it". You sit at home, wondering if you're smart enough, attractive enough, and most importantly, why you're not luring the most brilliant and handsome men in the world on these online dating sites. Aren't all the greatest guys, you wonder, sitting in front of their Macs like a pack of slack-jawed shut-ins? If not, shouldn't they be?


Well, you'd wondered where the magic had scampered off to, but you needn't worry your pretty little hairdo any longer! Just this morning, you received a personal message from TVRED, of Indianapolis, and baby, you know you're still smokin' hot.


You find it hard to describe this gem, so you'll just reprint it in its original form:

Good Morning, Annoying Deadbeat Townie, 

I know this is waaaay forward, but I was tired of the typical pick up lines on this site. So I decided to write you a story instead. Please accept it as the compliment it is meant to be. 

To set the scene, Britsh Virgin Islands on a sail boat, just us. The breeze is warm, the sun is hot and the water is the most beautiful blue you could ever imagine. I am standing behind the wheel and you are stretched out on the deck as we're clipping along in gentle waters at about 7 knots. We have a bottle of good champagne open and a bunch of fresh fruit out on the deck as well. You are laying with your top off sunning yourself up on the deck above the cabin under the mainsail, with your head toward me and your feet toward the bow of the boat. I am in some surf shorts and a cabana shirt (you know the ones that are button on the front, short sleeves, that stay untucked) with it unbuttoned partially and blowing around in the breeze. That scene seems to play for some time as we sail from one inlet earlier in the morning to another on an island somewhere else in the BVI to anchor and spend the night there. As we sail around an uncharted island the wind picks up but is still comfortable. The only difference is that some waves are starting to splash over the bow of the boat now. We sail into a wave that as we crash down, the splash comes up and blows over teh top of the boat getting you wet in the process. The spray startles you and you sit up and scream a bit. I stand there and laugh as I saw it coming. Instantly the cool water on your body and the warm wind gives you incredible nips. And as you sat up, your bikini bottom allowed me to see down them and see the crack of your butt. The moment gets up up and you come back to the cockpit (no pun intended) and pour yourself some champagne and eat some fruit. You come back to where I am and feed me some fruit and give me a drink of champagne as well. Then you walk behind me and put your arms up and on my chest. Instantly my dick starts to grow. You run your right hand down my chest across my stomach and over the waistband of my shorts and down to my crotch where you feel my hard on as you go to fondle my balls. 


You squeeze them gently, enough to be very erotic but not hurt. I sigh and lean back against you, cupping my hand over yours to squeeze a little and move your hand back up over my hardon. I turn so I can feel your breasts against mmy back, and run your hands back down over my hardon. I turn toward you and fasten my mouth over one of your nipples which are now really hard. You moan at the feel of my warm, moist tongue and feel yourself grow wet in response. I suck gently and flick my tongue over the nipple before moving over to pay the same attention to the other one. You bring your hand up and rub it across the breast I have moved away from. You ease your legs apart and I slide two fingers into your bikini bottom and between the slick lips of your pussy. You moan again, with your head thrown back. I lift my head from your breast and kiss you passionately, thrusting my tongue deep into your mouth. I taste sweet, like the strawberries and kiwi fruit you've been feeding me...



Lucky you! What a seaman, huh? And to think that that pearl of prose was written exclusively for nobody else in the entire universe except for you. Glorious, irresistible you! How else could he have known how much you dig guys who look like Parrotheads? 

And the sweetest thing about this whole thing? Why, your new beau's got talent! He'll be writing Nora Roberts-style bestsellers in no time, and there the two of you will be, glorious and tanned and covered with each others' respective effluvia!


Ahoy, mate!

7

You go to the gym (FIT) practically every day. Your life is so stimulating and action packed, you're afraid that if you don't, you won't be in the proper condition to meet life's real challenges head on.

Of course, since you go during the non-peak/prime-time hours, you are surrounded, generally, by the following types:

1) Middle-aged housewives (MAH) whose husbands are out working at some lucrative profession. These gals are usually in great shape, are pleasant, helpful, and friendly. Predominantly Anglo. 


2) Old retired dudes (ORD). To be avoided at all costs. Usually clueless about innovations made in athletic wear, they are still slogging about in twill overalls and long-sleeved long-john shirts. Many of them do not understand that exercise garments need to be washed on a regular basis, and they subsequently can be smelled from two rows of treadmills away. 

Also in this category is the ORD who decides to be hip by attending yoga or pilates or yogalates. Like his overall-sporting brethren, this ORD has not a clue as to what type of clothing is appropriate for his chosen activity. Unlike the fellas on the treadmill, however, this ORD opts for light, airy, short-shorts without leggings or much on underneath. What a cool customer! But pity the rest of the room, especially when Mr. Hi-I'm-A-Hep-Cat-Grandpa, decides to do his thigh stretches front row, center, and facing the mirror. 

3) Mystery People (MP). Who knows what the hell these folks are up to; you certainly don't. One goosenecked creature with a bizarrely erect posture, an unlikely looking pair of tits, and really defined legs, struts around looking like a Latina version of Foghorn Leghorn's girlfriend. Sometimes she works out wearing a heavy scarf or a fake fur hat. 

You comment on that one day and a woman you know says, "Oh. I think she's a dancer." 

"Oh," you sagely nod. "I guess it's a costume from the ballet."


"No, you nit," the woman says, "a dancer." She mock-gyrates on an imaginary pole. 


Now you get it. An exotic dancer. And why, you wonder, are they called exotic, anyway? What's so exotic about some babe sticking her snatch as close to some business guy's pie hole as humanly possible and still have him stuff her g-string with a wad of dirty ones? 


Wow. Next time you book a vacation, just bag the whole St. Barts deal and spend that two weeks over at Lipstick Gentlemen's Club on 146 just south of Kemah. They're both super exotic locales. 


Oh, yeah, and there are other MP's: a few upstanding looking fellas who maybe work in the health industry, maybe retail, maybe they own their own small businesses. Who knows? They're obviously not over with the drones at AIG, who march, en masse, over to the Subway on the corner of Allen Parkway and Waugh each day from noon to one p.m., weekdays. They're free! Free, dammit, to lift free weights and listen to Beyonce croon in an admonishing fashion to her not-so-wise single sisters about puttin' a ring on it. (Christ, after going to the official website for that one, you're wishin' someone would be puttin' a sock in it.)


BTW? An entire post can be devoted to how bad the music is in your gym, but you can't go there right now.


Some of the MPs, you know, are academic types, and since you know this, they are no longer MPs. The M stands for mystery, gosh darn it. 

4) The crowd that freaks you out the most, however, is that of the Personal Trainer (PT). At your club, you can usually spot them because they are wearing bright red FIT-logo athletic wear. There's no need to kid yourself, though. You'd be able to spot them anywhere. 


They are the super-creatures who are always freaking you out in one manner or another. One of them (who, you have found, is a perfectly affable creature), used to have you running for a towel the minute she stepped into the locker room, since you couldn't really tell, at first, whether this one was a man or a woman. You're thinking now that she's a woman, but only because other people have referred to her thusly. You yourself are not completely sold. 


Then there's the very dark skinned one with super high cheekbones, long straight hair that would give Chris Rock a conniption fit (Good Hair--must be seen to be believed), and thighs that she could probably wrap around an average man's chest and cut off his air supply. She's very unfriendly and seems to be quite self-possessed. Heck, with legs that could kick through a safe door, you'd have confidence, too. 


Recently, you happened to unpleasantly come across her and a Latina colleague in the locker room. The Latina, built much like a lil' Schwarzeneggerette, had on a green glitter-sequined thong bikini. The power-leg lady was mashing the Latina's tits around until they looked properly rounded in their teeny-sheeny-triangles. She then helped her oiled, buff, and bikini-clad mate into a pair of clear acrylic stiletto mules, and maneuvered her into various muscle-defining poses as she snapped photos. 


Really, you were so glad you got out of bed that day. You didn't think that people like that actually existed. 


The guy PTs, for whatever reason, don't seem as strange looking to you as the women. Maybe you're just more accustomed to seeing guys swagger around with their six packs bulging. But that doesn't seem to be it, really; the men, in general, at least at FIT, tend to wear fairly baggy clothes. A lot of them could probably be mistaken for plain ol' male gym-plebes. Come to think of it, some of the regular customers actually look like they're in better shape than some of the male PTs. 


But it's the women you're always looking at. Everything that's wrong with society seems to focus itself on these female trainers. Forget about the one you thought was a man invading the women's locker room. It's the plastic surgery victims that bother you the most, and there just don't seem to be as many of them that are male. 


Is it, you wonder, that the otherwise cute n' spunky PT with the botched lip job thought she'd attract more clients by having a juicier, plumper mouth with which to say, That's right, Louise! Just 14 more!  ??


Or, do you think, did the If Tinkerbell Was A Feminist And Could Kick Your Ass female PT (oh, and anybody can make one on this Disney link...), with her lean, angular build, cute spiked cut and matching togs, who now, with her overly-aggressive boob-job, looks like a couple of cantaloupe halves resting on a plank, decide that looking decidedly deformed was a good career move?


Bizarrely swollen body parts. Tanned androgynes. Glitter-clad chicks who can bench press an Oldsmobile. 


Looks like the circus, with all of its freaks, is permanently in town. 


You've noticed, however, that the tent showcasing this Tod Browning look must be perpetually packed, as most of these barnyard oddities seem to be driving Lexuses. Or is it Lexii? 

6

 You saw Splice last night, and boy was that one a stinker. Not only was the story all over the place (is it a horror film, an exploration of the psychology of man creates monster/man vs. monster, or just a wacky twist on  Bringing Up Baby? or is it a breath mint?)


Throughout the film--and you use that term loosely--the person you came with keeps leaning over and saying, "Who's the midget?" 

Of course, you think he's talking about the actress playing the alien spawn, so you profess not to know. Then you realize, at the end, that he's referring to the female lead, Sarah Polley. You suppose, in retrospect, that compared to male lead Adrian Brody (btw, this site is a crack-up: one is "Brodified" after a visit), she kinda does look like a midget. 


Man, what a casting train wreck that one is! Sarah "Billy Barty" Polley runs around throughout the thing with that same stupid slacker-ass look she had on her face in Go. She looks like that bitchy chick you went to high school with who's now all bloated but still think she's hot shit. And Adrian Brody (pretty hot) just walks around in plaid pajama pants or rumpled plaid hipster looking suits spouting a mouth full of pedantic mush on the subjects of right and wrong. Brody doesn't do righteous indignation well here. Maybe it's the matching hair that he and his twit of a character brother sport. You never quite get where they think they're (the filmmakers) are going with these themes. The morality or the hair.


Most annoying, however, are costumes, set design, and props. Man, the couple (Polley and Brody) are decked out like two of the most with-it hipsters ever to board the L back to Williamsburg. You're sorry, but you know a lot of really cool lab scientists. Great people, all. But they don't look like the gang in Splice. Nor do they decorate their pads with uber-cool stuff that makes them seem like they've done most of their shopping in Soho. Or Tokyo. 


Even more annoying was the car driven by Polley and Brody: a red and white Gremlin. Now, come on! Maybe you'll buy the hip decor. Okay, you'll try to swallow the image of Polley in moon boots, a thigh-length sweater that makes her look like Where's Waldo's Woman? just came out in print and a comrade-friendly Brezhnev hat. But a Gremlin? Wow, are these two scientists cool, or what? You think that whomever it was that made that decision should have just dropped those two in, you don't know, a 1971 Ford Pinto--voted one of the 50 worst of all time! How cool would that have been? To have them cheating death in the lab AND on the freeway? Or if they wanted to have them living dangerously, how 'bout Starsky and Hutch's Gran Torino. Or even better: The Dukes of Hazzard's own General Lee (you really should check out "Cooter's Place" here). 

Oh, but too late! Much cleverer writers already incorporated that one into the plot of a much more interesting show: Weeds.


I guess, though, if you're going to be told, visually, that these people are entirely too happenin' for you, shouldn't they be drivin' it with more style? 


Oh, the lack of originality here is mind-boggling. One scene (and you won't spoil the fun) smacks so much of a scene from Young Frankenstein, you find yourself screaming with laughter--only to find yourself alone in that endeavor. Oh, people! 

But this is all you need to take away from this flick: a) Scientists are evil and can not rein in their impulses to play God; b) Simply making the opening credits illegible and gooey-looking doesn't necessarily mean "good"; and c) Be they your own children, barnyard animals, or creatures you've created in the lab, pubescence is always a bitch. 

5

Although you decided at one point that having a twitter account for your own personal use would be, uh, like all other social networking tools, completely ______________ (insert politically incorrect adjective here: "gay", "retarded"), not to mention passe, you did decide that having one for your avatar, The Annoying Deadbeat Townie, would be a good thing. And here you are on Twitter. Tweets ahoy!


This will give you something to do besides sit on the couch and watch some of the worst movies you've ever seen. Monster in Law, with Jane Fonda and Jennifer Lopez, is still rattling around in your poor addled brain like a box of Cocoa Puffs. Maybe not rattling. Sloshing, what with the added milk that gets all chocolatey when the cereal's been sitting in it for a while. Ah, that was always your favorite part! The sweet milk that made your teeth and tongue feel furry.


Boy, that was a stinker, though. Not that you'd expect any less. Maybe you're a condescending snob, though, but wouldn't any decent parent be concerned when her only son, an heir to a fortune, brings home a big-butted temp who's trying to dress like something out of Hair? Let's just put it this way: you're not sold on the Jennifer Lopez romantic comedy.


Is anyone?


But then you were still glued to the couch when Juno, uncut, started. You'd always resisted this faux-slacker feel-good vehicle. And right you were. Not a bad story or plot line, but the most insufferable dialogue comes from the mouths of babes, and if someone could have kept a lid on Ellen Page's pie-hole, the whole thing would have been less cloying.


But you can't be bothered to get off the couch and find the remote, so you're stuck with this banality and bullshit. Turning off the damned thing doesn't seem to be an issue, either, so there you lie: mindless and damned.

4

Ah, Memorial Day. You just love these long holiday weekends. They're just hell for people who, like you, even on a normal day, do absolutely nothing. Not that there isn't always plenty to do.  It's just that you never get around to doing it. 

You do, however, spend a great deal of time on the couch watching movies, TV, and reading (in just that order of importance), and you caught Clint Eastwood's The Outlaw Josey Wales  on AMC last night.

Of course, you enjoy the movie. You enjoy almost everything Eastwood, from the Sergio Leone stuff to Million Dollar Baby (Changeling, you felt, was too plodding and obvious; Gran Torino? too pedantic and obvious--but hey, the guy's old. You gotta cut him some slack! 

After a while, though, you start focusing on a few things. Namely, the hair. A while back, you read that the Coen Brothers are remaking True Grit (after the novel by Charles Portis) in Grainger, Texas, with Jeff Bridges (nice site, by the way) as Rooster Cogburn (played by John Wayne in the original film--his only Oscar). Anyway, for whatever odd reason, you receive AFC (Austin Film Commision) postings, and you notice that, in the call for extras on the set for the Coen Bros. film, no one is allowed to have artificially colored or cut hair. You imagine that streaks n' wings aren't exactly period. 

You guess that Eastwood didn't really think about that one when directing The Outlaw Josey Wales or while portraying Rowdy Yates in Rawhide). While Eastwood covers his head much of the time with what may or may not be period headwear , you're pretty sure his trademark pompadour is a bit of a creative anachronism. By the way, you couldn't resist the urge to include this hilarious likening of Eastwood's Dry Look (very nice YouTube past-blast original ad) to Hugh Jackman's (you love how Jackman's site is not simply a site, but an experience) coif in Wolverine...

Maybe it isn't. You're no historian. But leading lady Sondra Locke's (and sure, you know you're alone in this, but isn't she odd looking?) 'do, you're pretty sure, can't be right. That flattened-out pre-Farrah look? No. You're pretty sure they weren't doing feathering in the salons back then. 

Otherwise? Besides the awful stereotypes of what Eastwood probably perceived at the time to be sensitive portrayals of Native Americans? All good. 

Just one other thing you notice. Well, not the first time. Eastwood's so nice looking. Why does he have such an unimpressive ass? And why is it so difficult to find a picture of Clint Eastwood from behind? This confirms your theory!

Well, lack of an appealing back side obviously hasn't hurt him any. Clint, no doubt, is clearly very cool. Maybe you shouldn't be so shallow. 

Then again, is there such a thing as being TOO shallow? You either are or you aren't. Degrees might not apply here... 

3

All your life you've dealt with the shame of being an early riser. The uncool one. The Tracy Flick (Reese Witherspoon's character from the Alexander Payne's brilliant film Election) in the crowd. As an artist and a writer, shouldn't you be out there late at night with the performing artists and musicians and writers of verse? With the poets who will all be wearing black turtlenecks and berets and be talkin' 'bout the squares?


Maybe so. But you can never swing it. Even with a nap, you can't hang with the night-owls. And you're not good with crowds, either. Just a few weeks ago, your buddy Mark Larue (he was your designated mailbox mate in the English department at the University of Houston from 1987-1989, and, quite possibly, one of the funniest men alive) made one of his regular treks from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, to Houston to see one of his favorite bands, Camera Obscura.


Mark often travels quite far to see bands he likes. You remember him mentioning driving to Austin several times to attend concerts, and the whole concept mystifies you. For starters, you would never in a million years even drive from Houston to Austin--or San Antonio, or Galveston, or even downtown--to wait until at least 11 p.m. to stand around with a bunch of young women wearing smock-y type frocks with empire bodices that make all of them look pregnant (as quite a few seem to be chubby and proud of it) and waif-y young men wearing skinny jeans cropped and rolled slightly below the knee.


That's a big detractor for you, the standing-up-stuff. It might be a little better if you could sit down. But at the Camera Obscura show (you always consent to attending these shows with him, as he's traveled far to see them), you arrive too late to obtain a seat, so you find yourself practically curled in the fetal position in a corner behind the girl who's selling tote bags that look like they might be sold on Etsy.


And this is where you stay through the whole show. It's an okay show, you suppose. To you, the whole lot, after a while, strikes you as a tad repetitive, despite the fact that you really do like this band. Tracyanne Campbell has the voice of an angel, but the acoustics at the Meridian Studio really suck some major ass.


You suppose it's better than when he took you to the Pretenders show at the House of Blues and some insufferable ass in a white button down shirt screaming, "Play Back on the Chain Gang" doused you with his bourbon and soda. 


You know you're a curmudgeon, but really, why all the standing up at these things? People are rarely dancing. When Mark took you to Radiohead, where you positively insisted on having a seat (not knowing that the tickets for the seated area would cost as much as feeding a Zambian family for a year), you sat there wondering why people didn't just sit the fuck down. Radiohead's hardly a toe-tappin', can't stand-still kinda band. Those dudes sure can play their instruments, and the acoustics at the Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion in what should be termed Hell, Texas but is simply known as the Woodlands, are more than swell.


Why, you wonder, can't people just sit the fuck down and listen to the shit? My God, the couple in front of you that night, who were obviously deeply in love and couldn't bear the idea of not joining their massive girths together in a bold, Here we are, the manager of a Winn-Dixie and his loving head cashier havin' a night on the town gesture, simply afforded you the view of their Wall-Of-Winn-Dixie backsides, rather than that of the band.


And they just had to be smooching up a storm.


But anyway, you've never liked crowds. Once, when you were 17, your father took you and your sister to see the Rolling Stones Some Girls tour at Soldier Field in Chicago. Between the lines to get in and the wait for the Stones to come onstage, you and what seemed like a million other people waited for what must have seemed like ten hours. You and your sister and your dad actually passed a joint back and forth, although you've never figured out who it came from. After hour 8.5, a very large bearded man with a long gray ponytail  in dirty overalls seated somewhere up in the bleachers behind you obviously overindulged and wound up falling on top of you and vomiting on your leg.


This could very well be the origin of your crowd fear and hatred, but you're no psychiatrist. You can't be sure.


So anyway, no crowds, and no late nights for you. You've always felt kind of bad about it. But you hit the hay at your decent hour and wake feeling just fine, so that acute sense of being a total squid temporarily melts away. Lately, though, you've made friends with someone in an earlier time zone who also happens to be a late-nighter. You'd love to chat, but even if you stayed up late, it wouldn't be late enough to accommodate this other person's schedule. Once again, you feel ridiculous and uncool.


This feeling's acute. You consider, in all seriousness, gasp!, taking a nap so you can stay up a little later. You feel compromised. Dirty, even.


But justification and redemption often come along when you most need them and least expect them, and in the oddest forms. This, for you, came in the form of one of your most favorite public personalities, Christopher Walken.

You've always been a fan of Christopher Walken, but this morning, when you read a brief bit about him in a rumpled New Yorker, you are mesmerized. This is off-topic, but you think that you would do anything to just sit around and listen to this guy. Not meet him, necessarily. You wouldn't want to hang around like some star-struck fan. But you'd love to be a fly on the wall. Everything this guy says, even in print, seems like something out of Beckett: There I was, just a couple of months old. Lying on a table. The window was open. I looked to the side and saw a fried egg on a white plate. 


The man is a living work of art.

That, and an early riser. According to the article, he retires at 10 p.m. and rises at 6 a.m. Every morning. Man after your own heart. And he's cool. Christopher Walken's cool. Is anybody gonna argue that? You think not.


So, phooey to all you hipsters. You, you know, shall continue to rise with the sun, and feel no further remorse. You are a lark, after all, and not an owl.

2

                  What Would Glenn Date?

Disclaimer: The following post is a decidedly un-mellow brew of fact, fiction, hyperbole, sheer horror, and self-loathing. The events depicted in this blog, therefore, are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental. 

If you happen to recognize yourself in any part or passage, well, shame on you. 


 A few days ago you meet this dude on the internet. You notice that he's looked at your profile, so you, in turn, look at his profile and it's totally empty except for the picture. So you send him a message wondering what is up with him. You hate these guys with empty profiles! Seriously! If you're on there,  it's your implied duty to be brave and tell everybody how you're laid back and a good guy (hello! can't we come up with something original, fellas?) and that you like just about any music, except for rap . 

So anyway, his is empty, so you're like, "What's up?" and, to your surprise, the guy sends back this novel-length message telling you, exactly, what is up.  He's unemployed. He's living in a huge house in the suburbs, but, due to the fact that he's been unemployed for a long while, his electricity's been cut off and since he gave away all his furniture, he sleeps on a sleeping bag in the empty living room. He goes to fast-food joints to get his wifi. Why, you didn't even know that for the price of a Value Meal, you could surf to your heart's content! He's badly injured because he's been hit by a car on his $1500. mountain bike. His dad lives down the street but refuses to lend him a dime, for unspecified reasons. 


Ah. Well. That's all interesting. Still, though, you've been seeing a passel of down-and-out types lately. One's unemployed and living at home. One's making shit for pay as a temp for a major oil company and sees no end in sight. One finds joy in potted meat products. Oh, you could be all snobby on this subject, but chances are you won't want to have much to do with any of them after a week or so, and who cares if a dude has a job if you're just, hopefully, going to be addressing one thing? You have, after all, completely bailed on the idea of meeting someone you might actually like...


But therein lies the rub. No pun intended. Poverty and pinheadedness seem to go hand in hand these days. But hope springs eternal. You agree to go out with this guy. After all, he looks kind of cute in his profile photo in a big high school jock kind of way. And though he regales you with tales of woe, he does it in a remarkably amusing fashion! Why not go out with this dope? 

So you plan to meet at a Mexican restaurant. He shows up complaining that he couldn't find the place. It was far. He likes the suburbs. He's a suburb kind of guy! 


You are definitely not a suburb kind of guy.


And this guy--typical--doesn't look like his profile picture. Why are these lugheads always thinking that they can post photos where they had more hair and get away with it? You balk. Between the khaki shorts with pleats (NO FUCKING PLEATS, GENTLEMEN--EVER), Bruno Magli loafers with (thankfully, no socks, although the combo still strikes you as dreadful), and a tucked in tee shirt (do all the goddamned guys outside the loop get together and decide that tucking their tee shirts in is a good look?), all you can think is, "Wow. Congratulations. You just made 43 look like the new 54..."


Still, for God knows what reason, he seems kind of funny. He looks you up and down and says, "48, huh?"
You say, "Huh?" 
"You're 48." 
"Yeah," you say, "It's on my profile." 
"Man," he says, eyeing your legs. "You look good for 48." 
You laugh. You do not tell him that he looks like shit for 43. 
"Do I look like my photo?" he asks. "Am I what you expected?"
"No," you say. 
"I thought you'd look like you do," he says. "But you look better. Man. 48." 
"I'm pretty sure I told you how old I was." 
"Yeah, no, for sure. You did. It's just. Well. Damn. 48."
You've heard this before--the part about looking better than your profile. You're not very photogenic. 


At dinner, a cheap Mexican place, you're having a pretty good time. You both worked in the restaurant and bar business for a long time, so there's always that to laugh about. And although you don't find this guy attractive one little bit, you're still having fun. But then he starts talking about his old neighborhood in a Dallas suburb. About how it's gone to pot, due to a certain minority. 


You clear your throat. Oh, no! The "N" word is coming! You can feel it! You can handle almost anything but the "N" word! As you feel the pressure mounting, you throw your rather large cloth dinner napkin over your head and cover your face.


"What the hell are you doing?" he says.
"We can't talk about this," you say. "I won't take this off of my head until you agree not to pursue this topic." 


He agrees. The napkin comes off of your head. He then, for whatever reason, tells you that Glenn Beck is right. About everything. You do a giant spit-take with your jumbo limonada. 


Still, for some reason, you're still laughing. This is the funniest train wreck you've been involved in in some time. The next topic of conversation goes, roughly, as follows: 


"So," he says, "I'm 43 and I've never been married." 
"You mentioned that." You look around. Do people understand just how deeply you understand your folly this evening? "I don't know if I want to get married again." 
"You don't?" 
"I dunno. Not right now, for sure." 
"But you're 48!"
"I think we've established that."
"And you're good looking." 
"So you say."
"Well," he says, "You're not gonna want some old fat guy."
"You are correct, sir." 
"That's all you're gonna get, cuz guys look like that when they're 55."
"I don't know," you say. "My ex is 57, and he's quite handsome and in great shape. Surely he can't be the only one." 
"You're gonna want a younger guy." 
"Yeah?" 
"Well, you're 48."
"Yeah?" For some reason, this conversation is still amusing.
"Well, you'd better get on it, cuz a younger guy won't want you."
"Because I'm 48." 
"Yeah." 


He gets up and goes to the bathroom and you decide to check your phone messages, as your phone's been ringing. You call voicemail. The first message is from the bathtub refinisher wanting to set up a time to deliver. The second is your friend Roxanne, confirming lunch. The third is a long, garbled thing. You're about to hang up when you recognize the voice of your date. The conversation he's having with two men, presumably in a fast-food restaurant, is garbled, but you can pick out a few things: "internet dating, man!", "tap that ass", and "yeah, can you believe it? 48?"

By the time he returns from the men's room, you're practically purple with mirth. Have you laughed this much in the past six months? You're leaned over the side of your rustic painted wooden chair with the woven rope seat, trying not to vomit. 

"What's so funny?" he says, sitting down. 
Gasping, you hand him your Iphone. He presses it to his face to listen. 
"Man," he says, unfazed, "I gotta watch that butt-dialing from now on."
You're laughing too hard to say, "Indeed!"


At the end of the evening, you say goodbye. He puts his arm around you and tries to give you a kiss. 


"Oh, for God's sake," you say. "Really? Come on!" 


Still, as you're walking away, you can't stop laughing.
Was that fun? Or what? 
Or What?

1: Welcome to a Fresh, New, Exciting World of Wonder! Kind of.

It's a New Year, and we at Annoying Deadbeat Townie Enterprises, LTD--your one-stop shopping outpost for all things inert, irritating, and unemployed/unemployable--are super-jazzed about our upcoming projects!


Our CEO and founder works night and day to bring the restless and disgruntled to you with no added or hidden fees, and this official launch from the '00's to the teens should prove exciting and profitable for us all!


If, of course, that was our mission. Thankfully, it is not.
We have, in truth, no mission. We'll report back on where this leads. We're looking forward to some profoundly unremarkable developments.


Happy 2010!